White Knight
by Marla Fair
Summary: A blizzard blows a strange trio into the fort along with even stranger doings. A tale of Cherokee mysticism, ghosts and vampiric visitors.
1. Chapter 1

White Knight

Prologue

Mingo couldn't feel his fingers. Or his toes.

He had stopped shivering and was beginning to feel a false warmth that promised – not relief from the frigid white nightmare he found himself trapped within – but release.

There was no horizon. No day. No night. Nothing but white. White trees. White land. White sky. White water.

White death.

He had no idea how long ago he had found the shallow cave, or when it had embraced his nearly frozen form. He couldn't remember what had happened. He only knew that his coat was missing. His clothes were soaking wet. That his movements were slow and labored and he was confused. He had no idea what day it was, when the storm had started or why he was out in it alone.

And he was alone.

He would _die_ alone.

Mingo glanced at his hands where they showed beneath the cuffs of the linen shirt he wore. Their usual golden tan was a sickly blue. He couldn't open his fingers. Speech was distorted, if even possible. Even though his mind was fast shutting down, he recognized the signs. He was freezing to death. In the spring, someone would find his bones. They would shake their heads and murmur sympathetic words, and then bury him in an unmarked grave far from his home.

Something in that thought roused him. No. _No!_ He would not die and leave no mark that he had been. Struggling against the lethargy that sought to claim him, Mingo raised his arm and reached for a nearby rock. His arm jerked spasmodically and he missed it. Once. Twice. Then he forced his frozen fingers to close on it and, strengthening one hand with the other, began to rake the jagged edge of the stone across the cave floor to write his name.

What _was_ his name?

The stone shook in his fingers. It dropped.

And then so did he.

Silence descended deep as the snow.

A moment later a strong breeze blew through the shallow cave, lifting his black hair, dusting it with white, crystallizing on the surface of the dark leather boots he wore and settling on his buff breeches.

Mingo did not have many heartbeats remaining. A dozen passed before the white wind that had blown through the cave coalesced, assuming the shape of a man. He was clothed in a suit of the palest blue. His honey blond hair was tousled, the curls restive as the spirit that shone out of his pale blue eyes. He was slender. Well made. And young.

And very, _very_ old.

The man knelt by Mingo's side, his fingers finding his throat, checking for the pulse of life that should be there. Locating it – but barely – he turned him over and took one pallid hand in his own.

"I came to save you, my friend," he said, his voice soft as the fall of white flakes that dusted his great coat and iced his pale hair. "Now it is too late. Now," he pushed the fabric back from Mingo's wrist and studied the thin thread of life beating there, 'now, _this_ is only way."

The young man's face grew sober and then blank. His blue eyes turned a sickly green. Full lips stretched taut over razor sharp teeth that grew in length until they were twin portents – not of death, but of immortal damnation.

The vampire howled and with deep regret, bent to the task at hand.

Chapter One

 _Five nights before_

Cincinnatus stood at the tavern window, a damp rag in his hand. He frowned at the heavily frosted glass and then, with the elbow of his sleeve, cleared a spot that blinded him and looked out. Boonesborough was no more. Or so it seemed. Without the window was an endless wall of white. The snowstorm had begun two days before and refused to relent. In places the fierce wind had made it rise to the height of a man and more. Whipped peaks of white crested the walk on the stockade wall. The boots of the sentries caused miniature avalanches as they patrolled it. The older man sighed and shook his head.

"No custom tonight," he said softly. Then he raised one eyebrow and looked toward the back of the tavern where a lone figure occupied a table in the corner, pushing a pint of ale back and forth between deeply tanned fingers.

Well, there was _one_ – though he was hardly a patron.

Cincinnatus tucked the rag beneath the strings pulled round the front of his apron and tied it in a neat little knot. He went to the keg, poured himself a sizeable portion of rum – a gift on an unavoidably bad night – and walked toward the table. Without asking permission, he pulled out a chair and sat down.

Taking a sip, Cincinnatus eyed the tall ebon haired native sitting across from him. He had not known him long – though on the frontier a year could be longer than a man's life. The native was dressed for winter in a warm hunters' frock of crimson with his usual blue and red-striped leggings. It was one of the only times Cincinnatus had seen his well muscled arms concealed. The older man took another sip and then asked, "Well, Mingo…. What's the story?"

The Cherokee started and looked up, as if he had just realized he was there. "Cincinnatus. What?" Mingo shifted the cup back and forth again. "Can I help you?" he asked with a sigh.

"I was about to ask you that. Not that you ain't welcome here anytime, but," Cincinnatus paused dramatically and then leaned forward over the table, "why in tarnation _are_ you here?"

Mingo pursed his lips as he spread his long fingers toward the pint. "A drink. A warm place to sit." He gestured toward him. "The company of a friend."

"I'd say that ale was more your friend tonight than me. Mingo I only seen you drink that much one time before, and that's when your father was here earlier this year."

Mingo's fingers gripped the handle of the mug. He looked down into it as if intending to divine the answer to some great mystery there. Then he stated, emphatically, "This has _nothing_ to do with my father."

Cincinnatus took another sip of his own drink and leaned back in the chair. He studied the Cherokee a moment. "You ain't a drinker, Mingo. And you _sure_ ain't a good liar."

If the Indian's black eyes had been daggers, he would have been dead. "Men have died for saying less than that," he snarled, his voice laced with an unexpected rage.

The older man studied him for a moment. "That's it," he remarked as he rose from his chair.

Mingo stared at him. "What is _it?_?"

Cincinnatus caught hold of the rim of the mug and took it from him. "When an honest man threatens to kill another man for _telling_ him he's honest, he's had one _too_ many. Bar's closed, Mingo, but the inn's still open. With the storm, I got me some empty rooms. Why don't you head upstairs, find one, and bed down for the night?"

Mingo continued to stare at his hands as if the mug were still in them. Several heartbeats passed before he shook his head and shakily rose to his feet. "Thank you for your kindness, Cincinnatus, but I am going home," he announced.

"Home? Mingo, you can't be serious." The older man pointed to the door and the frozen world beyond. "Ain't nothing out there but white death. All of Boonesborough's bedded down. Ain't no one moved but you in the last twelve hours. I'm not even sure how you got here in the first place – "

"Why, don't you know, Cincinnatus?" Mingo answered with an ironic smile, "Indians walk on _top_ of the snow. We do not sink into it. The spirits rise and carry us over it so our feet do not even get wet."

Cincinnatus anchored a fist on his hip and eyed the native. He shook his head. "Make that _two_ too many. Mingo, you ain't leavin' this place. I got a lock for that door not even _you_ can pick."

"That is very kind of you, Cincinnatus, but such caution and concern are entirely unnecessary." Mingo moved somewhat awkwardly toward the door, knocking one of the heavy oak chairs over in the process. He ignored it and reached for his coat which hung on a peg by the door. "I am fine."

"Fine, my eye teeth! You're drunk as a skunk," he countered, approaching him. "You go out in that snow and you'll freeze to death!"

Mingo drew up to his full height so he loomed over the older man. Then, with as much dignity and grace as he could muster – which wasn't much – he pulled his coat on over the thick frock, and then caught his powder horn, rifle, and bandoleer in his fingers. Mingo placed his hand on the latch of the door and then arched a black brow as he looked back. "To quote the Bard, 'there's little choice in rotten apples.' And what choice there is, is _mine_. I will see you later, Cincinnatus."

And with that, Mingo opened the door and stepped out in the night.

The roaring blast of frigid air drove Cincinnatus back as he did. The older man stood for some moments looking at the back of the door and then cursed, "Dad blamed fool!" The older man's gaze moved to the staircase – up which lay his warm bed and a recently kindled fire. Then it returned to his coat and hat which hung behind the bar. "Darn stubborn _pig-headed_ Indian!" Quickly abandoning the desire of his heart for the sure knowledge of his head, Cincinnatus made for the coat and hat, intent on following Mingo and bringing him back – or at least making certain the sentries knew not to let the native through. As he was thrusting his arm through the second sleeve, Cincinnatus pivoted and headed for the door.

But stopped when he saw a lean figure occupied it.

It wasn't Mingo. This man was tall, but not nearly so tall as the Cherokee. And he was light as the other man was dark. He was dressed as a colonial in a pale blue great-coat and storm gray cloak and tricorn hat. As he stepped in the door, bringing snow and a renewal of the icy wind with him, the man doffed his hat and shook white flakes from his tousled honey-blond curls. Then he smiled.

Instantly Cincinnatus liked him. He opened his mouth to greet him as he greeted all his customers, then stopped.

There was that crazy Indian to think about.

"You want a room, mister? Cause if you do, you go right up the stairs and take one. I'll be back soon as I'm able," he groused as he approached him. "We can settle in the morning. It ain't like you're going anywhere."

The man glanced behind his shoulder at the cold night and then asked innocently, "Did you lose something?"

"A loco Indian!" Cincinnatus snorted. "You must of seen him. Went out right afore you come in."

The stranger ran a hand through his curls, seeking to order them but failing. "I didn't come by the usual route. An Indian, really? What tribe?"

"Damned fool Cherokee. Got his-self drunk for Heaven only knows what reason."

"Ah, Cherokee." The man smiled again. It was the smile of a child – innocent, engaging – and perfectly suited to his boyish face. His pale blue eyes lit with interest. "I don't believe I have ever met one of the native inhabitants of your American shore."

"Well, you ain't gonna meet this one either 'cause he's gonna be dead!" Cincinnatus proclaimed as he pulled his collar up against the wind that blasted in through the open door behind the man. The tavern-keeper shivered and looped his woolen scarf around his throat and then realized the stranger had no scarf or gloves, and even though he was in the line of direct fire, seemed to be perfectly at ease. With a frown, the older man dismissed it. "'Scuse me. I need to find him."

The man touched his shoulder. Cincinnatus paused and looked at him. "You _need_ to return to your drink. Finish it and go to bed." Those pallid blue eyes met his and held his gaze, unwavering. _"You are very tired, my friend. Business was miserable this night. There will be no more custom."_

Cincinnatus nodded. Once. Twice. Three times. "Tired. Miserable business. No custom."

"Yes. _You did not see me. Nor the Indian._ Tell me!"

"I didn't see the Indian or you."

The stranger smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man. Now, get to your bed." With that, the man turned to leave the tavern. Once over the threshold he paused. Looking back, he asked, "The Cherokee's name, what is it?"

"Mingo," Cincinnatus replied without hesitation. "Cara-Mingo."

"And where would he be headed?"

"His lodge. Between here and Chota."

The man stepped closer, so the light of the lanterns inside the tavern lit his youthful face. "Are you certain? Is there anywhere else?"

Cincinnatus thought about it. "Dan'l's place. He might go there."

"Dan'l?"

"Boone. Daniel Boone. Cabin's just outside the fort. If Mingo gets past the sentries, he'll go there."

The man nodded. "Have no fear. Your friend will be safe…with me."

Cincinnatus blinked, and then realized he was standing in front of the open door of the tavern with the snow blowing in about his feet. He shook his head as if to clear it, shivered, and then closed the door. For a moment he stood, wondering what he could have been thinking, and then headed across the tavern to grab a broom and sweep the floor. As he passed the stair he yawned mightily and changed his mind.

His bed was calling him.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel Boone was sitting by the fire in the parlor of his home, which was really just a place set aside by the hearth with a tall-back bench and a couple of chairs, staring at his beautiful wife who was busy darning one of a pair of brightly colored indigo blue stockings. They were Jemima's and were her pride and joy, but as their daughter grew, so did her feet, and she had just put a humdinger of a hole in the left one the night before. Becky shifted under his scrutiny and looked up at him without raising her head.

She nodded toward the dulcimer in his hands and asked, "You through singing for the night?"

"Well, it ain't me rightly made that decision, Becky. Sweet Talker is just plum talked out."

"Oh, I see." She took another stitch. "Well, she has been 'talking' a lot the last few days."

"Yep, the old girl's overdone it." Dan placed the instrument with loving care on the bench seat and walked to the window. Drawing back the heavy muslin curtain he said, "Snow's knee-high to a Conestoga mule. And it don't look like there's any sign of stoppin'."

"Mm-hm," Becky murmured. "It doesn't look like you'll be going anywhere soon. How _will_ Mingo survive without his hunting partner?"

Dan looked at her. She never hid it well – that slight smirk. The one she got when she knew she _had_ the great and mighty Daniel Boone. Becky was a wonder. How she put up with him, he couldn't guess. Gone nigh onto three quarters of the year. Missing out on all the important dates. Always seeming to put everyone and everything before her and the children when – in fact – he did it _all_ for them.

"Oh, Mingo'll get by."

"He needs a wife," she declared as she made the last stitch.

Dan laughed. _This_ was a frequent topic of conversation. "I'll let _you_ tell him that," he said with a wink.

Becky put her darning down and rose to join him. As she slipped into the circle of his arms, she turned her face to the icy world outside. "I worry about him."

He kissed the top of her head and pulled her close. "I know you do. But then, you worry about everyone."

"Are you laughing at me?" she scolded, turning toward him.

This time he kissed her on the cheek. "Nope. _Lovin'_ you. Sweet Talker's tuckered. Your darnin's done. The world outside is a solid block of white and the young'uns are in bed." Dan raised one brown eyebrow. "Mrs. Boone, you got any idea what the two of us might do?"

She thought about it a moment. "Well, there's that letter to Abigail that needs writing and the hole in the roof that needs stopped, there's mice in the larder and, if I am not mistaken, a broken shovel and pitchfork – "

He placed a finger to her lips. "And a woman that needs kissin'. And that's the most important chore of all." Dan caught her in his arms and crushed her against him and bent to kiss her on the lips. Outside the hushed world continued to hold its breath, giving them a moment alone – a moment to be husband and wife – one of those moments that were all the more precious as they were so very few.

Becky had her eyes closed. She drew a long deep breath and opened them. Reaching up, she pulled the comb from her hair and permitted the lustrous copper wave to cascade over her shoulders. Then she took his hand and turned toward their room – and almost immediately cried out in surprise.

"Dan! Outside the window!" Her hand went to her throat, her fingers trembling as they clutched her shawl.

"What? Becky, what?" Seldom did he let his guard down but this night – with the snowstorm, with her in his arms – for a moment he had forgotten to be afraid. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "Something. I don't know. Red eyes on the white snow."

Dan took the room in six long strides and returned to the door with Ticklicker in his hands. "Step back, Becky."

"Dan, no! Just leave it. Whatever it was, it can't – "

"Mr. Boone?" Unbelievably a voice called from _without_ the cabin. "Mr. Boone, are you at home?"

Dan hesitated and then drew in a breath of air. "Yep. Who's askin'?"  
"You do not know me. My name is Nicholas Knightsford. I have only just arrived in Boonesborough," the man explained over the howling wind. "May I come in?"

Dan glanced at his wife. She shrugged her shoulders. "We can't leave him out in the cold, Dan. It wouldn't be Christian."

He nodded, though his Christian duty was to his God first and to his family second. Strangers came in a close third. "Step back, Becky. Better yet, go check on the children."

"Dan…."

"It'll give me a minute to feel out what this here stranger wants. Do it, Becky."

Her mouth formed that tight-lipped, tight-jawed line that said she would obey but _not_ like it. She nodded and then went to the loft ladder. He watched her ascend and close the trap after her. Then he turned and opened the door.

Outside in the howling snow stood a man. His cloak whipped in the wind, revealing the great coat beneath. It was a miracle he still wore the storm-gray tricorn hat. "Mr. Boone?" he asked.

"Mr. Knightsford. Come in out of the cold."

"Thank you." Nicholas Knightsford stepped into the common room of the cabin and paused, as if waiting for permission to enter further.

"Take a seat by the fire. Warm yourself."

The stranger nodded again and did as he suggested. "That is kind of you."

"Would you like a warm drink?" Dan asked, following him.

"No, thank you. I will not tarry long." Nicholas removed his hat and ran a hand through his blond hair, freeing it of snow. "I will come right to the point as time is of the essence, Mr. Boone. Do you have a friend, an Indian friend, named Cara-Mingo?"

Dan was reaching for the poker to move the logs. He was instantly alert. "Mingo? Is somethin' wrong?"

"I fear it is. As I said, I have only just arrived in your settlement and my natural inclination was to go to the tavern." Nicholas grinned sheepishly. "Upon my arrival I found the innkeeper quite alarmed. It appears your friend, Mingo, was there and left in his cups."

" 'In his cups?' Oh. Drunk, you mean? Mingo? Are you sure that's what Cincinnatus said?"

"Cincinnatus?" Nicholas smiled again. "A noble name with a nobler heritage. But yes, that is what the innkeeper said. Apparently Mingo was alone and had consumed a quantity of ale. Cincinnatus did not know if he was headed for his lodge or here, but as your home was closer, I decided to check it first. There is no trail, of course, with the wind. I take it Mingo is _not_ here?"

"Nope. Why are _you_ lookin' for him?" Dan didn't want to seem suspicious. Still….

"I offered to look. I have a certain natural immunity to the cold. The older man I feared would not weather it well, or have the endurance to persist in his pursuit."

Even as worry for Mingo dominated his thoughts, the back of Dan's mind was wondering about Mr. Knightsford. He was obviously well educated. Who was he? _Why_ was he here?

"Dan?"

Dan swung and looked up. Becky was descending the ladder. Nicholas was already on his feet as if he had sensed her presence even before she started down. "If you would, Mr. Boone?" he asked, indicating he would like to be introduced.

Dan nodded, and then watched the man as he moved across the cabin to greet Becky. Not a gesture was wasted. His body language spoke of grace and elegance, but little else.

Mr. Knightsford was a riddle that needed unraveling.

"Madame," he said as he took Becky's hand and kissed it gallantly.

"This is Nicholas Knightsford, Becky. New to the settlement."

"You came in _tonight_?" she asked, astonished. "How?"

Nicholas' smile had a wry twist to it. "Oh, I just blew in with the wind."

Dan opened his arms and as his wife slipped into her usual place, she asked the stranger, "Did I hear you mention Mingo's name?"

"Apparently he's out in the storm, Becky," Dan answered. "And he's not himself. He needs help."

Her blue eyes crinkled with worry. "You have to go?"

"Yes, Darlin'."

"It can't wait until morning?"

The stranger had been listening quietly. At her suggestion, he said, "No! It _cannot_ wait." Then, seeming to sense he had spoken out of turn, he added quietly, "In his condition, it would not be wise. He could easily freeze to death."

"His 'condition'?" Becky asked.

Dan scowled. "Looks like Mingo might have taken in one too many horns, Becky."

"He's drunk? But Dan, Mingo doesn't drink."

He nodded as he reached for the peg that held his coonskin cap. "That's what I used to think, Becky. Before Lord Dunsmore came callin' earlier this year."

Nicholas Knightsford had been quietly listening to their conversation. Now his eyes lit with surprise. "Lord Dunsmore? _The_ Lord Dunsmore? The governor-general of Virginia? What was he doing here?"

"Lookin' to make Virginia even bigger," Dan answered as he pulled on a woolen vest and then donned his buckskin coat. Becky went to fetch his powder and kit, and as she handed it to him, he anchored Ticklicker beneath his arm. "You know him?"

"Me? Not really. An acquaintance of mine has had occasion to do business with him." Nicholas' face seemed to fall. "I would have thought this far-flung settlement would have been beyond his influence."

"Well, with Mingo's help we kept it _out_ of his jurisdiction." Dan finished preparing and then turned to his wife. "Rebecca, bar the door and don't let the children venture out. It's too dangerous."

"For you too," she whispered.

He met her worried gaze. "You know I have to go."

Becky nodded. "God speed, and may the Good Lord protect you. _Both_ of you," she finished, glancing in the stranger's direction.

"I am sure God will keep watch over your good husband," Nicholas replied softly. Then he tipped his hat. "Good night, dear lady. Have no fear, no matter what happens, I will see Mr. Boone safely home."

With that, Nicholas Knightsford opened the cabin door and stepped out into the night.

"He certainly is sure of himself," Becky said softly as she braced herself against the wind that accompanied his departure.

"That he is. And maybe while we travel, I can find out some of the _other_ things he is." Dan kissed her on the lips and then turned his face to the howling wind. "There's more than one mystery here tonight, Becky, and I mean to solve them all."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Dan stared over the rim of a cup of steaming coffee at his companion. Near evening of their first day's travel, the storm had driven them into a cave where they sat warming themselves over a fire Nicholas had miraculously kindled, waiting for it to abate enough for them to continue their search. The stranger was ill at ease – pacing from one end of the cave to the other. Dan leaned back against the cavern wall and took a sip.

From the look of him, a man would have thought it was Nicholas Knightsford who was Mingo's blood brother.

"You're gonna wear a hole in either the cave floor or those expensive boots of yours," Dan commented softly.

Nicholas stopped and glanced at him.

"Why don't you save some leather and park yourself by the fire?"

With one last look at the raging storm, Nicholas did just that. He crossed the small space and took a seat opposite Dan, and thanked him as he handed him a cup of coffee. Dan watched him closely. Nicholas cradled the cup, but he didn't sip.

"You seem mighty upset for a stranger. There somethin' you ain't tellin' me?" Dan asked.

"About what?" Nicholas replied.

"Mingo. You know him. Don't you?"

Nicholas frowned, and then that boyish smile reappeared – but chagrinned. "I have made his acquaintance before."

"In England?"

"Mr. Boone. Are you a seer?"

Dan took another _long_ sip. "Nope. You don't exactly sound like you're from around here."

"No." Nicholas laughed. "No, I don't suppose I do." He hopped to his feet then, as if incapable of alighting for long, and began once again to pace. "We knew each other in England. Attending the same school. Moving in the same circles. That sort of thing."

"And you came here to Boonesborough to see him?"

"No. Well, yes…. In a way." Nicholas paused before the cave's opening. "How many hours until dawn, do you think?" he asked unexpectedly.

Dan frowned. "Hard to tell when the world is white. Three, maybe four."

"We need to move."

"For Mingo's sake. Or _yours?"_

The question was asked quietly, but its impact was loud. Nicholas Knightsford stiffened and then his shoulders slumped. He turned toward him. "You are a shrewd man, Mr. Boone."

"Call me Daniel."

Nicholas nodded. "Daniel."

"Well…."

"For both." Nicholas returned to his side. "Your friend cannot long survive in this white wilderness. And I dare not tarry."

"Someone followin' you?"

He was silent a moment and then shrugged. "I am not certain." A flash of that smile. "But I don't care to take a chance that they are."

"What do you want with Mingo?"

Even though he seemed temperamentally incapable of staying put, Nicholas sat down again. "I just want to talk to him."

Dan leaned forward and gripped the handle of the coffee pot. " 'bout what?"

"You are a persistent man, Mr. Boone…. Daniel."

Dan showed that lop-sided grin. "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

The other man drew a deep breath. "Mingo is the son of an English earl and a Cherokee woman, is he not?"

The frontiersman nodded. "Yep. What of it?"

"It is his… _unique_ perspective I need. I have a riddle to solve. One I believe he can help me with."

"A riddle? You gonna tell me _what_ riddle?"

The boyish smile reappeared, but tainted with the hard-won wisdom of a _very_ old man. "No."

Dan thought about it and then nodded his head. "Fair enough. A man's business is his own."

"Thank you, Daniel – "

"But if you bring harm to Mingo – or to mine – know you'll have me to answer to."

"I do not intend – "

"Ain't a man's intentions I judge him by. It's his actions."

Nicholas was silent for several heartbeats. He looked toward the cave mouth, toward the white world outside, and then back at him. "I pray, by my actions, to show you that I am nothing but a friend to Mingo – and to you. The storm has abated a bit. Don't you think we should go?"

Dan's light green eyes followed the other man's. Sure enough the white world outside the cave was now tinted a deep lavender, as if it reflected not the whirling snow but the waning night sky above. Dan tossed the remainder of his coffee on the fire and then rose to his feet as it sizzled.

"You still believe Mingo to be headed for his lodge?" Nicholas asked.

As he placed his coonskin cap on his head and then palmed Ticklicker, Dan answered, "Headed there, yep. As for reachin' it?" Outside the cave the wind still howled, raising devils of pale purple snow. "I don't know."

"Then where?"

"There's a few cabins scattered alone the way. And a few barns. I'm hopin' he's holed up in one of those. If not…." Dan swallowed hard. "Well, if not, Nicholas, that there riddle of yours may stay unsolved."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Confounded wind! Why don't ya shut your yap and let a man get a peaceable night's sleep!" Cincinnatus muttered as he started down the short stair from the second floor of his tavern to the first wearing only his linsey-woolsey nightshirt and cap, and a pair of red and white striped stockings. Halfway there he slipped and slid to the bottom, feeling the pine hand of every step as it slapped his bony posterior on the way down. Ending with a thud and an 'oomph' at the bottom, he barely managed to keep hold of the tin lantern he carried, but even so it spit hot wax on his fingers in retaliation.

Cincinnatus sat for a moment, breathing hard, and then looked up at the ceiling. "You got something ag'in an old man gettin' a good night's sleep?"

As he sat there the incessant pounding started again. When he had been tucked in his bed, a soft feather ticking between his bones and its wooden ribs and several layers of warm linen and wool over his head, he had thought it was a loose board or shutter banging. Now, from his unenviable position on the tavern floor, he realized the sound was coming from the front of his establishment.

Someone was knocking on the door!

Squinting, he glanced out the tavern window. It was near dawn now, but the only thing that had changed was that the swirling snow outside was a deep lavender pink instead of white. "Who in his right mind…" he grumbled as he gingerly rose from the floor, taking care to make certain nothing was broken. "Hold on! Hold on! I'm a comin'," Cincinnatus called out as the pounding continued, so forcefully he thought the door might give way. "You must be the size of a grizzly bear from the sound of – "

The door was open. So was Cincinnatus' mouth.

Outside, wearing a cloak of snow, stood a petite dark-haired beauty. Her vivid blue eyes pinned him. Her lips, red as rubies, parted as she reached out toward him – her gloved hand catching at the cloth of his nightshirt as she fell to the ground.

"Messier, merci…"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel rose to his feet and signaled his companion. He and Nicholas had left the trail long before reaching Mingo's lodge. It seemed his inebriated Cherokee friend _had_ lost his way as expected – but in more ways than one. They had found Mingo's bandoleer empty and abandoned by the side of the road, its contents spread out over a trail that led them north half a mile – into Shawnee territory. Dan pointed toward the snow-covered ground. "Nicholas, take a look at this."

The other man was standing, staring at the horizon. He turned at Dan's voice and hurried to his side. "Have you found something?"

"Tracks."

Nicholas bent down to examine them and then looked up puzzled. "These are the tracks of a hare."

"Yep."

The young man frowned. "I don't…."

"They might be a hare's, but they _are_ tracks. That means we oughta be able to find Mingo's. The snow's not been blown so hard here." Daniel looked up at the canopied trees above their heads. "I just wish I knew whether or not he was thinkin' straight," he added with a sigh.

"And why is that?" Nicholas asked. "Other than for the obvious reasons."

"There's a cave. It's still a good day's walk from here, maybe more on account of the snow. One time, Mingo wouldn't a gone near it. But I think he'd feel different now." Dan's worried look turned to a scowl. "If he's able to feel anythin'."

"What kind of a cave?"

Dan pursed his lips. "You believe in ghosts, Mr. Knightsford?"

"Nicholas, please. And, yes." The blond smiled. "I have made the acquaintance of one or two."

That raised one of Dan's brown eyebrows. "Well, once upon a time this here cave was s'posed to be haunted."

"By whom?"

"The spirits of the Shawnee murdered on the spot. They called it Wi-sha-sho."

"Once, but no more?"

"A while back, in the summer, we ended up there – Mingo, me, Becky and the children – somethin' happened and the ghosts, if they was ever there, were put to rest."

"So you think Mingo might have made for there?"

Dan's green eyes narrowed, remembering that day. He had often wondered what had happened to the British officer they had helped. They had brought Lieutenant Henry Pitcairn back to the settlement after the Shawnee released him, but upon awakening the next day, Pitcairn had been gone.

"There's some old supplies there, and it would be a safe harbor in a storm. It'd be my best guess considerin' where we are."

"Well, then, let's get going!"

Dan looked up again, this time toward the clear sky showing beyond the ceiling of trees. For the moment there was a respite in the snow, but the breeze was rising, indicating a fresh assault was on its way. "It's a long walk, Nicholas, in the bitter cold. Me – ain't nothin' I can do but go. But you? There's no need for you to put your life at risk."

Nicholas grinned. "Risk? Is not _every_ breath a man draws a 'risk'? Come, Daniel, you would hardly be here, on this harsh American frontier, if you did not know that. Did not, in fact, _embrace_ it!"

"You sure are a curious type of a man, Nicholas," Dan declared.

The stranger laughed, but sobered quickly. "You have no idea," he said. Nicholas paused then, eying the sky again as was his habit – like a man expecting any minute to be set upon by predators. When he looked back, he added with a wicked grin, "I will tell you _one_ thing about me."

"And what's that?"

"That I was the fastest sprinter at Oxford. Let us see if you can keep up!"

And before Dan could say anything, Nicholas Knightsford dashed into the trees and disappeared.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Who do you think she is, Cincinnatus?" Becky Boone asked as she shook the snow from the mantle covering her head and stepped into the tavern. The 'she' in question was upstairs in one of the rented rooms. Cincinnatus had sent Jericho Jones to the Boone cabin to escort Becky to the settlement. Since the stranger was female, he had not felt qualified – or proper – looking after her. Also, since the woman _was_ a stranger, he had felt more comfortable asking Becky to do it rather than one of the busy-bodies of the town. Becky had left Jemima in charge of the cabin and her little brother, and told her she wouldn't be long.

The older man shook his head slowly. "Cain't rightly say. She don't look like she's from around here. Too refined. And she speaks French."

"French?" Becky blinked. "Does she speak English as well?"

Cincinnatus pulled his chin hair. "Cain't rightly say."

She glanced up the stair. "What do you suppose brought her here, to Boonesborough?"

He shook his head. "Cain't – "

"…rightly say," she finished with a nod. "Fine. Well. I'll just go up and see her then." As Becky started up the steps, she turned back to ask, "Did she have any bags? Anything to identify her?"

"Now that's a strange thing, Rebecca. All she had was a cloak – its on the peg inside the door – and one of them there little fur muffs women use to warm their hands. No bags. No one with her to carry them, and from what I can tell, no wagon or coach to have arrived on!"

Becky nodded. Definitely a woman of mystery.

This impression was deepened when Becky opened the door to the upstairs room and advanced toward the bed. The woman was beautiful; her skin almost as pale as the bedding she lay on, but by nature – not from illness or fatigue. Her hair was nearly black, though there were undercurrents of auburn and a deep chocolate brown in the thick waves. It was upswept in the latest city style. The woman's lips were a rich ruby red and looked as though they had been painted. Becky lifted the candle beside the bed and moved it along the length of the stranger's petite frame. She was dressed in a deep crimson closed gown of costly fabric with its hoops removed for travel. Around her neck was a double string of pearls set with an ebon cameo. Everything about her shouted quality – at someone _else's_ expense.

Becky returned the lamp to the table and then sat quietly in the chair. But not so quietly as she thought. The woman stirred and opened her eyes. Her red lips parted and she breathed a little sigh. Then she said a single word.

"Nichola…."

Reaching out and taking her hand, Becky told her, "Nichola is not here, but I am. My name is Rebecca. What is yours?"

The woman blinked and her eyes seemed to clear, but she made no reply.

"Oh, dear. I wonder if you speak English. I am afraid I know very little French."

A little smile lifted the edge of the woman's lips. "Jeanne…" she murmured.

"Jeanne! Then you do speak English?"

Her nod was almost imperceptible. "Oui."

"How do you feel?"

"Lost. So much white. No night or…day. Could not tell…when to sleep." Her tongues wetted her lips. "Could not…feed."

"Feed?" Becky frowned. "Are you hungry? Would you like me to bring you something hot?"

The woman's intense blue eyes settled on her face, then fell to her neck where her cross lay, and from there went to her hands. She shook her head. "Non. Could not…eat. Just let me sleep, here, in the dark." She turned her face into the covers. "Away from…so much _white_ …."

And with that Jeanne fell unconscious again.

Becky looked at her, and then to the window curtains that stood open to the whirling world outside. It seemed the poor thing was frightened of all that snow. Concerned for her, Becky rose and crossed to the window and closed the curtains tightly…

Shutting out the light _and_ the cold white night.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Nicholas paused in the cathedral of snow-capped fir trees to draw a breath. Normally running faster than the human eye could follow would not wind him, but the day had broken and to a creature such as him – nearly 550 years old and poisoned by the least brush of the sun's rays, let alone the startling reflection of its face on the slick icy surface – the rising light made every step an agony. Here in the sanctuary of the trees he felt momentarily refreshed. But even here, in this dark harbor of safety, emissaries of the light worked their way through the bower above, reaching him. He glanced at his wrist where contact with one of them had raised red welts on his pallid skin. He needed to find the cave Daniel Boone had mentioned and, if he was _so_ fortunate, the nearly frozen fugitive it held. Twice now he had stopped and reached out, feeling for the warm pulse that was a human heart in this cold wilderness. Once he thought he had put a finger to it, but that turned out to be nothing more than a dying deer caught in the ice.

Nicholas sighed. It haunted him still. Death. Though he would never know it. There was nothing like it – to feel life slip away from a living, breathing creature. It was both a great loss and a miracle. He had slacked his thirst with the deer's life's blood. Had _eased_ the deer into Heaven.

Something else he would never know.

Drawing a deep breath Nicholas began to move again, hugging the cool shadows, casting his senses ahead. Behind him he could fell the frontiersman – Daniel Boone – following in his stead. Daniel was angry and rightly so. But he could not travel that slowly.

Not if his old friend, Kerr Murray, was to survive.

As he dodged yet another bullet of light shot through the trees above, Nicholas thought of the last time he had seen Kerr. It had not been at Oxford, but at a gala at Lord Dunsmore's Stirlingshire House. All the best and the brightest had been in attendance – including himself, Janette…

And their master, LaCroix.

Nicholas shivered, not with the cold, but with the thought of the nearly two millennia old vampire. Lucien LaCroix always looked on such affairs as a sort of open market. Every man's arm was graced with a winsome beauty ripe for the picking. But that had not been their real purpose there. LaCroix sought only two things in his protracted abominable life, pleasure and more explicitly – power.

And there had been power aplenty in the presence of John Murray, the fourth earl of Dunsmore, now governor-general of Virginia. Already LaCroix had had a hand in stirring up the trouble that led to the Seven Year's War between France and England. Now, in its aftermath, he meant to seize power in the colonies. They had come here initially to visit Williamsburg, in order for LaCroix to meet with the very same Lord Dunsmore…. Or so LaCroix thought. For Nicholas' part, the virginterritory held little interest. It was Kentucky he sought –

And a certain Cherokee of his acquaintance.

Nicholas paused, listening, but there was nothing. He shook his head and started out again. LaCroix loved games, and the petty machinations of men of power suited well his warped sense of play. Janette cared little for power, but she delighted in watching LaCroix manipulate and humiliate mortals.

And him? Nicholas Knightsford? Well, he just wanted _out._ That was what had brought him here to Boonesborough – in spite of a storm which seemed intent on preventing it – and drawn him to the only Cherokee he knew.

Kerr Murray, or Cara Mingo.

They had known each other at Oxford. Kerr and he had shared an unusual interest in the mythology of the aboriginal inhabitants of the Americas. Humoring a pair of bright students, their proctor had allowed them to indulge their curious habit. Once, shortly before he had been forced by LaCroix to flee that life, Kerr had mentioned something about an ancient Indian legend, decried by some but embraced by others; the legend of the Raven Mocker: a shape-shifter once mortal, made _immortal_ who – according to some sources – could change back again.

Could this legend offer him hope of a cure?

Nicholas halted in front of a treeless expanse of snow glowing golden with the dawn. The rising wind whipped his tousled blond hair and tossed it into his eyes – confirmation of Daniel Boone's prediction of more snow to come. As he reached up to catch one of the errant locks, he froze.

There it was. The pounding thump. The dreaded call. The pulse of a human heart.

But it was weak.

Nicholas closed his eyes and concentrated. Yes. Mingo was there. In a cave? Yes, again. There was a hollow echo. He cocked his head and sought a direction. East a little, and then north. That's where it was.

That's where _he_ was.

Lifting his cloak, Nicholas wrapped it about his head and, drawing a deep breath against the pain, plunged into the rising light.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

Rebecca Boone lifted her head and winced. She raised a hand and massaged her neck and then rose from the chair beside the stranger's bed. Crossing quietly to the window, she reached for the curtains only to have a soft voice with a French accent stop her.

"Please, leave them be."

Becky turned back to look at the woman. Jeanne was sitting up now, leaning against the pillows, her beautiful face turned into the shadows. "Whatever you want," she said. "I was just going to see if it was still snowing."

"It is. I can feel it."

Becky frowned as she returned to the woman's side. "Feel it?"

"I do not like winter. I do not the cold. And I do not like this primitive wilderness into which I have been dragged." Jeanne looked at her. "I cannot imagine what could possibly compel any sane creature to leave behind the civilization of New York or even Philadelphia for this frozen wasteland peopled with wolves and bears!"

After a moment, Becky said softly, "Well, freedom for one."

One painted eyebrow peaked. "Freedom?"

"Your own land. Your own life." Becky sat down again. "Your own choice of what to do with both."

"Even when that life can be snuffed out in a moment by _that!_ " she gestured toward the window.

The withering wind had driven snow through the chinks around it. A white coating iced the wall beneath the window and formed a frozen puddle on the floor. Becky knew from experience that if she went to the table close by and touched the linen towel, it would be stiff as a wash-board. She had kept the fire going in the corner hearth, but it was small and only heated a space a few feet out from the stones.

Becky nodded. "Even then." Then she added softly, "It snows in New York and Philadelphia too, you know?"

Jeanne's smile was mischievous. "Oui. But there are many inns, taverns and theatres which are filled with warm bodies. And many men to wrap one in wool and walk one between them. Non?"

Becky laughed. "Oui." She rose and turned toward the door. "You must be famished. Let me go see what Cincinnatus has prepared."

"Non!" When Becky pivoted sharply to look at her, the Frenchwoman slid down in the bed and drew the coverlet up to her chin. "I am fatigué. I could not eat. Not…yet. Perhaps tonight." Her blue eyes flicked to the snow-encrusted window and the white world beyond. "When it is dark."

Frowning, Becky nodded. "Is there anything else you need? Before that?"

Jeanne shook her head.

"Well then, I should get back to the cabin. My children are alone and with this snow…. Well, I hate to be away long."

"I am fine. It is nothing that a long rest in the dark will not put right."

"I'll tell Cincinnatus just to let you be. If you need anything – "

"I won't."

"Well…." Becky put her hand to the latch. "Sleep tight then."

As the light from the corridor fell across Becky's face, Jeanne shifted and raised up on one elbow. "Madame…."

She turned back. "Yes?"

"Ce qui est…." Jeanne scowled. "What is your name?"

"Oh. I guess I forgot to tell you that. Rebecca. Rebecca Boone."

The stranger frowned, and then a new light entered her eyes. One of interest. "Boone? As in 'Daniel' Boone?"

"He's my husband. Do you know Dan?" Becky asked, even though she found it highly unlikely.

"Non," Jeanne answered, easing her mind for a moment. Then the Frenchwoman set the alarm bells off afresh by asking. "He has a friend, non? A Cherokee?"

"Well, yes…. Mingo."

"Mingo?" Jeanne pouted as if that was not right. "I see." Then she flipped over onto her side and turned her face to the wall. "Good night, Madame Boone," she said, dismissing her.

Becky stood with her hand on the latch for several heartbeats and then passed into the corridor and closed the door. Leaning back against it, she considered their curious visitor for a moment, and then went to the stair and descended to the common room below.

Dan couldn't get back _too_ soon.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Nicholas stood just within the saving shelter of the cave. There he hesitated, regaining strength, while he cast his senses forward searching for the man he had once known as Kerr. He could hear the Cherokee's heart beating, laboriously pounding out the rhythm of a life slowly turning to ice. But beyond that there was something else. Something _more_. Something he was not certain came from the Cherokee.

A whisper of longing. A yearning. Pain.

Hunger.

Daniel Boone believed the spirits of this cave exorcised. But if the frontiersman was right – then _what_ was it he sensed?

Nicholas frowned as he surveyed the cave's darkened interior with its shifting shadows that seemed almost alive. He entered and passed the remnants of a fire long dead, pausing to examine a spear thrust head-down into the rock. Then he stopped and stared with longing at the remains of several human beings gone to bone. These must be some of the victims of the British massacre Daniel Boone had spoken of. The frontiersman had said little, but from those few terse words Nicholas had deduced that a terrible miscarriage of justice had happened here, that the spirits of those killed had haunted this place, and that something Daniel – and Mingo – had done had avenged them.

Whether it had freed them or not remained yet to be seen.

He passed the skeletons and bent low, entering a portion of the cave that extended back into the hillside. As he did, his nose wrinkled. The air carried the scent of a fire recently kindled but allowed to die. That, and something more.

Nicholas stopped and cast his supernatural senses forward again. This particular passage was circular, though there were others in the cave that extended back into the hillside. A few feet more and it would bend back and carry him to the front. Within it – yes, it was still there – was the faint pulse of a human heart. But there was also death and the odor of decaying flesh. Days. More likely, weeks old. The frigid cold would have acted as a preservative, so it was hard to tell. A mortal would not have nosed it. Steeling himself, Nicholas continued forward, concentrating on the feeble voice of the soul stranded on the shore of the River Styx rather than the one who had already passed over.

Turning the corner, he stopped.

And found them both.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo opened his eyes to a world of pain. Fire licked at his senses; it ran rampant in his fingers and his toes. It coursed along his arms and legs and gathered in his chest, burning, searing away consciousness. He groaned as his heart pounded hard speeding toward oblivion, and curled into a ball seeking to crawl back into the blessed darkness. Strong hands caught hold of his arms and held him tight. A voice – steady, unwavering – called him back.

"Listen to me. Listen to my voice. You _can_ withstand the pain."

"No. No! It is too much…."

"No. _Listen to me. Hear my voice."_ The man spoke slowly, hypnotically. "There is no pain. Only a gentle warmth that crawls toward life. Feel it, rising from your fingers, from your feet. _Welcome it!"_ A hand was pressed flat against his chest – just above his heart which was beating wildly. " _Peace, Cara-Mingo. Peace."_

Mingo gasped, and then grew calm as the peace the man spoke of infused him. He shuddered and looked up at his savior. The stranger's face was a blur of white skin and pale yellow hair. "Who…who are you?" he asked.

There was a smile in the answer. "A friend."

A second shudder took him and he began to shiver. "What…what happened?"

"You were nearly frozen, my friend. I have covered you over with warm blankets and lit a fire. You must remain quiet. It would be best if you sleep. You will need all your strength to survive. The path from here to Boonesborough is a walk in white."

"Where…are…we?"

"A place of shelter. That is all you need to know for now." The man leaned forward and drew the blanket up about his shoulders. Then he placed his hand on his forehead. "Now, sleep. Heal."

"No. I need to know – "

Again the voice – steady, unwavering.

" _You will sleep. Now_."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When Mingo woke again he was alone – or so he thought. He turned his head gingerly and looked around. He was in a large cavernous room decorated with tumbles of rock and the refuse of its former inhabitants. Nearby a spear stuck out of the floor. Shifting, he looked toward the cave's mouth and saw a man. He was standing, silhouetted in the opening. Beyond the opening the sky was a pale purple, indicating it was either dawn or candle lighting time. As he stirred, the man turned and came to stand over him. He was attired as a colonial in a pale blue suit, though he had removed his coat and was dressed now only in a linen shirt, waistcoat and breeches.

"So you are awake at last," the man said. "How do you feel?"

"More like one of my winter kills stored in the ice house than I would care to admit," Mingo answered, a chagrinned smile twisting his lips. He grimaced as he moved and one of the dry dusty blankets covering him fell away. It was only then he realized he was all but naked. His deep brown eyes went to his rescuer.

"Common sense. Your clothes were frozen. When you began to… _thaw_ , they became soaked through." There was a twinkle in the man's bright blue eyes. "I could have made a pretty penny back at Oxford if I had offered the ladies a peek at such a show."

"Oxford?" Mingo sat up, and then regretted it.

The man dropped to his knees beside him and offered him an arm for support. "Pray pardon me. I should know better than to jest with an injured man."

Mingo blinked. His vision was blurred. His head was pounding and his mouth dry as bone – two more reminders of the shameful way he had behaved at Cincinnatus' establishment. "If I am injured it is only just punishment for such _rank_ stupidity – "

"There could be far less poetic ends. 'Gone to sleep in the bosom of Kentucky bourbon' does have a certain ring as an epitaph."

Mingo frowned and turned to look at the man supporting him. " _Who_ are you?"

The stranger rocked back on his heels. He released him and opened his arms wide. "Knightsford nicks 'em, and Murray carries them away. When the two are on the town, nothing gets in their way!" he proclaimed with a smile.

The frown deepened. But only for a second. "Knightsford? Nicholas Knightsford! Is it you?"

Nicholas laid a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, my friend. Arrived in time to save you from yourself, it seems. What drove you to drink – and out into the cold?"

Mingo frowned. It seemed absurd now. Why he had let the letter the courier brought him get under his skin the way he had, he would never know. It only served as confirmation of the lengths – and depths – to which he already knew his father would go. Shifting again, he glanced around the cave, recognizing it for what it was – the Place of 1000 Spirits.

"What drove me out into the cold?" he repeated. "A spirit. A spirit of things past."

Nicholas suddenly sobered. "A spirit? Such as walked this place?"

Mingo sighed. "No. Not a dead one. This one is very much alive, and of a mean disposition."

Nicholas rose to his feet. "You talk in riddles, old friend."

"Riddles to which there are no answers…except the grave." Mingo rolled to the side and extended a hand. "Help me up," he said. Nicholas did so, bracing his arm as he rose to his feet, the blanket still clutched tightly about his shivering frame. "Now, where are my clothes?"

His former school mate shrugged.

"Nicholas…."

"Charming – and primitive – as they were, I am afraid there wasn't much left. Your most _interesting_ trousers were damaged beyond repair. The frock is there," he nodded toward the shadows masking one side of the chamber, "along with the beaded necklace. You had no coat."

"I must have lost it somewhere. I do not remember much." Mingo frowned. The images of his journey were as blurred as his senses had been. "I believe I crossed the river."

"It _is_ frozen."

"Yes." He shivered again and pulled the blanket tighter. "How long has it been? Since I left the fort?"

Nicholas shrugged. "A day, nearing two."

"How did you find me?"

Nicholas had turned away. He crossed into the shadows and came back with a leather satchel in his hand, which he placed on a flat-topped rock. "There are clothes in here. They look to be close to your size."

Mingo looked inside. There was a man's linen shirt and a pair of buff colored breeches, as well as clocked stockings and a few other personal effects.

"There is this as well."

He reached for the item and then stopped. In Nicholas' hand was a scarlet coat. A single silver epaulet on the left shoulder marked it as a British lieutenant's.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Something someone left behind." Nicholas indicated the passage behind him that led back into the hillside with a nod. "Someone who no longer has need of it."

Mingo turned slowly, remembering clearly the howling of the lost souls pouring out of that dark recess. He and Daniel and Rebecca, along with the children, had been trapped here by the Shawnee – pawns in a great game of chess played between ten mighty warriors and one pitiful British soldier driven mad by what duty had compelled him to do. Two hundred souls had perished on this spot. Two hundred innocents who had cried out for vengeance, until the man they haunted could no longer hear anything but his own voice singing an old English tune – driving out their cries and any sanity that remained. Catching the blanket in his hand so he would not trip over its length, Mingo moved deliberately into the passageway. Nicholas followed close behind, a torch in his hand. As the flickering light brushed fallen boulders and sharp-toothed stalactites, it struck something shiny hanging a few feet off the cavern floor. When Mingo drew close he saw it was a pair of silver spurs, adorning a pair of leather boots.

With the feet still in them.

Mingo gasped and fell back as he realized a man hung suspended from the ceiling of the cave, his long lanky form dangling from a rope that had somehow been fastened to one of the rock formations above. The corpse hung motionless, its pale fingers curled up in rigor; its jaw slack, its vacant eyes staring into oblivion.

"Dear God…" he breathed, all strength taken from him.

"Do you know him?" Nicholas asked as he lifted the torch to illuminate the corpse's ghoulish face.

"I _did_ ," Mingo said. "It is Henry Pitcairn."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Most of the day had fled. Becky left Jemima at the cabin to finish the evening work and put Israel to bed while she accompanied Jericho Jones back to the tavern. He had stayed with them throughout the day doing what he could. She knew the boy's reasoning was two-fold. One, working chores kept him close to Jemima and two, helping out would earn him a free supper. Becky shook her head. Jericho could be a sweet boy, but he was bold as brass and apt to open his mouth so far both feet would fit in with room left over. Life would teach him as it did everyone. She just hoped it wasn't at her daughter's expense.

The snowstorm was taking a breather. Or so it seemed. There had been a great wild whirl of snow midday and then the wind had fallen off to a whisper. White flakes were still falling, but it was nothing more than a dusting on a white floor already two to three feet thick. In places it drifted higher than a man.

Cincinnatus' shed had completely vanished from sight.

The lull in the snowstorm had drawn men like moths out of their white-walled cocoons to the tavern. When Jericho pushed open the door, the sound of music and merry voices greeted them as well as a very welcome blast of warmth and light. As Becky shook snow off her cloak and turned to hang it on a peg, she jumped and let out a little yelp. Jericho Jones had laced two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Becky put her hand to her chest and pivoted as he stomped across the wooden floor, leaving a trail of snowy footprints that led to –

The stranger named Jeanne.

"Madame Boone!" Jeanne cried in welcome, extending a hand toward her.

Jeanne was holding court, or so it seemed, on Cincinnatus' counter. The dark-haired beauty was seated on its much-abused surface. Ranged around her were a half dozen men – Yadkin and Cincinnatus among them. Jeanne was wearing a different gown – a deep sapphire one with silver edging – that must have appeared out of nowhere, and had obviously primped before leaving her room. Her skin was pale as before, but glowed now with vitality. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips, an even darker red. Her rich black-brown hair had been undone and done again, piled high in dark ascending wave that was topped with a glittering comb set with blue stones. On her cheek and exposed chest were matching beauty marks, used by women of some… _experience_ to call attention to their best attributes.

"Madame Boone, come and join us!" Jeanne called merrily, waving.

Becky cleared her throat as she wiggled her fingers in return. "I came to see how you were. I can see you're…just fine."

"Are you the one responsible for bringin' this here little lady among us, Ree-becca?" Yadkin asked, his pickled tongue slurring all the l's. "Why, ain't no finer female ever set foot within Boonesborough's walls!" Yad hesitated as if thinking hard. Then he grinned stupidly. "Present company expected…er…excepted."

"Messier Yadkin has been so kind as to tell me all about your lovely settlement." Jeanne reached out and wound one of Yadkin's golden curls around her finger. "He is such a dear."

"Shucks," Yad said, melting. "You can call me 'Carolina'."

"Is there anything else you need, Miss Charme?" Cincinnatus asked. His fingers worked his soiled white apron nervously. "Another drink? There's more bottles in that case you brung with you."

Jeanne smiled sweetly at him and then looked at Becky. "Yadkin was so kind as to brave the snow to find my belongings. The coach which carried me here abandoned me when the snow became too high." She pouted perfectly and then wet her lips. "He found it and my cases, but could find no sign of the men."

"You want I should fetch you another bottle?" Cincinnatus asked, panting like a puppy.

"She don't want you to do nothin'!" Yad shouted. "I brung her things here and I can get her what she needs."

"Now you listen here, _Carolina_ Yadkin! This is my establishment and I take care of my customers – "

"Since _when_ , you old goat? Ain't a man here will test-ee-fy to that with his hand on a Bible!"

Jeanne's lips pursed as though she had tasted something foul. "Can we leave the Bible out of this?"

"That's a'cause you and he ain't smart enough to read it!" Cincinnatus bellowed back.

"You callin' me stupid?" Yadkin asked, stepping close.

"I ain't 'callin' you nothing, I'm tellin' you!" the older man replied, pushing his finger into Yad's shirt. "You're _stupid!"_

"If that don't sour my milk!" Yad shouted back. Unexpectedly he drew his knife and brandished it before the older man's face. "I'll wade with this into yer liver!"

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen!" Jeanne smiled sweetly as she held her hand out to Jericho and, much to Yad and Cincinnatus' chagrin, allowed him to help her from the counter. She straightened her deep blue skirts and then pushed between the two men. "Carolina, if you would be so good as to fetch me another bottle." As Yadkin smirked, she added, "And Messier Cincinnatus, a clean cup?"

Both men scattered, leaving her alone with Jericho. He was standing there, hanging on her every word, waiting for his orders. Jeanne looked him up and down and sighed. "How old are you?"

Jericho took his hat off, held it at his waist, and executed a deep – if clumsy – bow. "Nineteen, Ma'am."

"Ma'am." Jeanne shuddered. "Run out in the snow and find me a green leaf."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

Becky shifted out of the way just in time. Jericho almost ran her over in his enthusiasm to obey Jeanne's command. As the door slammed behind him, the Frenchwoman caught her eye and shrugged.

"Boys will be boys. Will they not?"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo shivered as he looked at the regulation army boots in Nicholas' hands. "I cannot," he said quietly.

"Can't what? Walk a mile in a dead man's shoes?"

"Nicholas, this is _not_ humorous…."

Nicholas Knightsford stepped back and looked at his friend. Cara-Mingo, as he was known now, had become – almost – Kerr Murray. His old friend was dressed as a white man in Pitcairn's extra shirt and breeches, but his hair was still loose and shoulder-length, and his stockinged feet, without boots.

"You cannot travel in the snow in your stockings. Be practical."

Mingo swallowed hard as he stared at the black leather boots. They had come from Pitcairn's corpse. And somehow, that made things different to the Cherokee. "I _am_. Henry Pitcairn died a violent death. An untimely death. His spirit is here. You said so yourself."

Nicholas had mentioned his unease. "I said 'something' was here. Still, it makes no difference – "

"It makes _all_ the difference!" Mingo touched the boots with caution – as if they were alive and might bite him. "Pitcairn's spirit is not at rest. He will not take kindly to me walking out of here in these."

"Perhaps he will think you make him live again."

"Perhaps I _will_ make him live again."

"Now _you_ are talking nonsense."

"Am I?" Mingo crossed to the place where they had laid Henry Pitcairn's remains and covered him over with rocks. "Among my people, and the other native peoples of this land, there are many legends." He glanced at his old friend. "You remember."

Nicholas nodded. "I remember."

"Henry Pitcairn _could_ blame me for his death. Daniel and I were instrumental in bringing about his end. Or he might see me as just another _Indian_ , as he did when first we met."

"You said you sought to _save_ him from the Shawnee."

Mingo nodded. "But lost him to madness in the end. And now his spirit walks this earth, seeking answers it _cannot_ find."

"Let us leave this place then. What you and I seek is in concert. We both have need of knowledge that only the elders of your tribe possess."

Nicholas had explained to his old friend that he had come here, to Kentucky, to research the ancient legends that had fascinated them both as youths. That, within them, he hoped to find a cure for the disease that afflicted him. In so many words he spoke the truth. His old friend Kerr Murray knew he suffered from an affliction that rendered him as vulnerable to the sun as most men were to fire. An affliction that could _kill_ him. He told his friend, now known as Mingo, that it was his belief that the healers of his tribe held the key to his salvation. What Nicholas did _not_ tell him was that the search for a cure to his affliction was only a part of what he sought, and that his true interest and intent lay in finding a Raven Mocker. A shape-shifter who could become a raven or wolf…

Or perhaps a bat.

"I should return to Boonesborough," Mingo said softly as he sat and began to reluctantly draw on the boots. "My friends will be worried."

"We will go there together," Nicholas said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "when we both are whole."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

An hour later the two friends departed – Nicholas Knightsford in his storm-gray cloak and hat, Mingo wearing the scarlet coat and boots of a dead man. They vanished into the white world beyond the cave. In the absence of their presence – of warmth and life – a wind arose within the cold stone walls, stirring the dust and debris of the nightmare that had ended there long ago…

And the one born that very day.

Footsteps rang. A shadow passed by the stone cairn the two men had erected over the British lieutenant's remains. There were words. Hushed. Barely discernible, but growing in strength as the one who sang them moved toward the white world outside.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

'Musha rig um du rum da, whack fol the daddy-o.

Whack fol the daddy-o…

There's whiskey in the jar.'


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

A lone figure stood before the stately window in the study of the Governor's palace at Williamsburg, Virginia. His hands were locked behind the back of his ostentatious frock coat which was cut from the finest of fabrics and hand-decorated with ornamental seashells and savage animals in an overt show of his domination over the New World's vast, and as yet, mostly unexplored wilderness interior. With a sigh the figure's shoulders slumped. Power was as fickle as a woman. A man could hold it utterly in one hand and at the same time feel it slipping inexorably out of the grasp of the other. Outside the window, the grass of the Common was white as the elaborate sugar paste baskets that graced the center of the stately table in the Palace's dining hall where his guests sat, waiting to begin their feast. The wine was poured. The servants ready. The chefs stood by, awaiting a single word.

The only thing not ready was the Governor.

John Murray, the 4th earl of Dunsmore and Governor General of the Virginia Territory, placed a hand against the frosted window pane. He glanced at the edict he held in his hand, and then his thoughts flew – as they often did – to the land that lay beyond the expensive glass, beyond Williamsburg with its thin veneer of civilization, to the lush Kentucky Territory with its primeval forests and primitive inhabitants. But most of all they flew to one _particular_ inhabitant of that vast wilderness, not so primitive, though he chose to live as if he was.

His son.

Riders had come in from the Kentucky that morning with word of a storm of monstrous proportions which had settled on the blue-green land, smothering it in silence and snow. Where in that vast expanse of white, he wondered, _was_ his son? Where was Kerr, or Cara-Mingo as he preferred to be called now? Would another rider arrive – in a day or a week – to tell him his son's frozen body had been found, and his bones taken to be mingled with those of his mother, Talota, where they lay crumbling on a bier raised high above the earth?

Lord Dunsmore brought his fist down on the glass.

 _No!_

Someone cleared their throat behind him. "Sir?"

John Murray turned to find his black servant, Hector, standing just within the door of the study. Hector had been with him for many years and had permission to enter his presence without being called for – if the need was imminent.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A man to see you, sir."

"There are a hundred men who want to see me," he sighed. "That is why I have barricaded myself in here."

"Yes, sir. But this man…." Hector glanced behind. "Well, I think you'll want to see him, sir. He's come in answer to your summons."

"My summons?" he frowned. "What is his name?"

A pale hand was laid to the door above Hector's brown head. As it slowly opened inward, his man-servant backed into the room. "Lucien LaCroix," the tall white-haired man wearing a splendid dress uniform of crimson and gold who stepped into the study said, announcing his own arrival. "Brigadier General Lucien LaCroix. Retired, of course."

"Lucien!" John Murray's face broke into a genuine smile – the first it had worn throughout this long day of wooing and winning allies. "My dear fellow, it has been years! Why, you haven't aged a day!"

Lucien's ice blue eyes crackled and his upper lip twitched, lifting to form the accustomed sneer which all who knew him understood to be a smile. " 'Beautyis but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly', my dear fellow." General LaCroix crossed the room in several long strides and halted near the mahogany desk that stood in front of the window. He studied him a moment and then said, quietly, "I am sorry to say I cannot return the compliment, John. You look _quite_ fatigued."

John Murray dismissed Hector with a nod. As the door to the study closed, he dropped heavily in the upholstered wing-chair behind the desk. Flinging the edict onto the polished surface, he sighed, "Ever the diplomat, Lucien. And as usual, quite correct."

Lucien LaCroix balanced one hip on the edge of the desk. "Trouble with the peasants?" he sneered.

John Murray lifted his hands as he laughed. "Good God! Don't let the locals hear you say that. Every man in attendance tonight from Massachusetts to the Carolinas counts himself a king of infinite space!"

"Were it not that he had…bad…dreams…." LaCroix leaned in close and whispered, "What troubles _your_ sleep, my friend?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Prince Hamlet, whom you quote, once said in sorrow of his father, 'I shall not look upon his like again.' My eldest son would say the same thing, and be glad about it!"

LaCroix shook his white head. "Children. What can you do? They _must_ rebel." He closed one hand into a fist and brought it down sharply, making the items on the desk jump. "And _we_ must bring them to heel! For their own good, of course," he added with a contrived smile.

"What _is_ Nicholas doing these days?" John Murray asked. Back in England he and the enigmatic Lucien LaCroix had formed a fast friendship – due for the most part to their recalcitrant sons.

"Trying his father's patience as usual." Lucien rose and walked to the window and stared out at the white world beyond. "Here. Somewhere."

"In the colonies?"

"Oh, yes. He and Jeanne traveled with me to the capital. Nicholas worked an elaborate charade – oh, the boy is bright! He escaped me."

"And the lovely Jeanne – is she here?"

General LaCroix pursed his lips and nodded. "Ever faithful, she has followed her 'Nichola'. They are both out there. Lost in paradise. For the moment…." Lucien shrugged as he looked at him. "But like the proverbial lamb, they shall come home to me wagging their tales behind them – sooner or later."

Jeanne and Nicholas were Lucien LaCroix's adopted children, though he felt as strongly for them as if they had been his own. John Murray had a suspicion that Nicholas might actually be Lucien's, perhaps a bastard as his own son was, for the love the white-haired Englishman bore his errant blond boy was fiercely possessive. But that was his own opinion.

"And so, here we are, two loving fathers with wayward lambs," he remarked at last. "What are we to do?"

"I understand you have already 'done' something, John," Lucien said quietly.

John Murray's eyes flew to the open letter on the desk. "What? How would you know – "

"Did I not say I was 'summoned', your Lordship," LaCroix executed a deep bow. When he rose, he wore a sly grin. "Brigadier Lucien LaCroix, retired – no more. I am one of His Majesty's Intelligence Agents."

" _You_ are a spy?"

"Tsk. Tsk. Such a gauche term. Let us say, I undertake covert operations. And I understand you have need of just such an operative. And one you can trust."

He said nothing. This was not what he had expected, and the sudden turn of events left him uneasy.

"John…." Lucien spread his arms wide. "This is _me_ you are talking to. You need a man to carry out a secret mission in the Kentucky Territory, do you not? I am not mistaken, am I?" His smile dripped acid. "You _have_ placed a bounty on your son's head?"

John Murray leaned back in his chair. "I would not put it exactly like that…."

"And yet, in so many words, that is what it is. You are willing to pay to have him brought here – in chains if necessary."

"Yes. By God! _Yes!"_ Lord Dunsmore left his chair and began to pace before the window. "I will not have my son die on some back woods battlefield, taken down by a bullet from one of my own men's guns, or pierced by an arrow shot by some painted savage! I know if I can spend time with him – out of his element and _in_ mine – I can convince him of the error of his ways."

"And you are willing to see him languish in prison? For, John, it is likely that is what you will have to do – imprison him."

He nodded. "I would hope that would prove unnecessary. But yes, I am prepared for that eventuality. Kerr will hate me at first, of course. But time heals all wounds." He turned and looked out the window once again. "I have many holdings. Several small estates which are situated in the Highlands and for the most part, wholly forgotten. A man placed there would be the same."

"Good man!" General LaCroix joined him before the window. He laid a hand on his shoulder. "I always knew we were cut of the same mold. But tell me, John…"

Lord Dunsmore looked at his old friend. "Yes?"

"Is there room on that estate for _another_ wayward boy?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Chota seemed a very long way away.

Unfortunately neither Henry Pitcairn nor the deceased Shawnee of Wi-sha-sho had seen fit to include snow-shoes in their wardrobes, so he and Nicholas were forced to slog through drifts up to their knees and over their thighs in places. Their only saving grace was the fact that the storm had abated. It had been at least half a day since the wind had died down and what white flakes remained amounted to only a dusting. Though it was frigidly cold and the path was often treacherous, at least they could see where they were going – even if most of the familiar landmarks had been erased.

Mingo glanced at his companion. They were standing on a slight rise, adrift in a world of white. Nicholas as he remembered was immune to the cold. Still, as they traveled and the morning light – though diffused – grew ever more present in the winter sky, his friend seemed to weaken. Nicholas' skin grew pallid, losing the rosy glow of youth, and he began to move like an old man. Not that Mingo fared much better. Fighting his way back from all but freezing to death had left him weak. He was barely able to keep his feet. They both needed food and shelter –

And they needed them both _now_.

Nicholas turned his face toward the sky. It was filled with clouds and gray as old lavender, but the sun was there, hiding behind the thick banks. His former schoolmate drew his heavy cloak up to shield his face. Breathing hard, Nicholas said simply, "I need to get out of the light."

Mingo nodded. Nicholas' condition had perplexed the best medical minds at Oxford. The final analysis had been that it was something in his blood. If exposed for too long to the sun, he developed a burning rash which began to consume his skin. "We are near the Green River. There are many caves between here and my village. Daniel and I use them often. I believe I can lead us to one."

"How far?" his friend asked, panting.

"Mercifully for both of us, not very." Mingo offered his hand. "The wilderness is the great equalizer. Allow me to help you, as you helped me."

Nicholas grinned as he took his hand and leaned into his strength. "Thank you, my friend."

It took them more than an hour to find shelter. By the time they did, they were both exhausted. Nicholas had grown faint. Mingo helped him to sit and then stepped back and looked at him. His friend's skin was mottled and covered with a slick sheen of sweat. He was breathing hard and his blue eyes looked feverish.

In fact, Nicholas Knightsford gave every impression of a man on his deathbed, not long for this world.

As Mingo knelt by his side, he asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

His old friend's smile was weak. "Just let me sleep. And do not wake me until the sun has gone to bed."

He nodded. "Very well. I will keep watch."

Mingo positioned himself at the cave's entrance. He had no weapon. His were lost, and Nicholas never seemed to carry one. Still, he thought, he could listen and give warning should trouble come. He caught himself nodding once…twice…and the third time, fell asleep.

At least, he told himself later, he _had_ to have been asleep.

There was a noise. The sound of a someone singing, soft and low. It roused him. Rising to his feet, Mingo looked outside the cave and then searched its darkened interior.

Finding no one.

Sitting back down, he positioned himself a good six inches from the wall and forced his body to remain upright – and awake. With no time to heal, he had to fight every inch of the way. The journey to the cave had left him exhausted. On edge. Mingo glanced at the cave mouth. Obviously he had been hearing things.

Idly, he wondered how long a man could go without food before he began to hallucinate.

Time passed slowly. Minutes. Then an hour. Two. And, in spite of his best efforts, his eyes closed once more.

And then he heard it again. A voice. Humming a tune. And footsteps. As if someone walked up the path to the cave. Peering beneath his lids, Mingo searched the stone floor. Just as an icy wind arose, chilling him, a shadow appeared, eclipsing the waning sunlight.

"Animal. This time she will take _you_ ," a man snarled close to his ear as it enveloped him.

Mingo's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright.

The cave was empty.

Panting, he rose to his feet and ran out into the dwindling sunlight. Sweating and shaking, he turned first one way and then the other, searching for the form that had cast the shadow. Finding nothing, Mingo sank down to the ground outside the cave and leaned his head back against the hill, utterly exhausted. He remained there for some time until a hand falling on his shoulder roused him and brought him to his feet with a shout.

A tall figure stood before him, silhouetted in black against the rising moon. There was a rifle in its hand and on its head –

A blessedly familiar coonskin cap.

"Daniel," Mingo breathed in relief.

Daniel Boone grinned his lop-sided grin. "Well, if'n you ain't a sight for sore eyes, Mingo. Even if you _are_ wearin' a British coat!"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Is your friend all right?" Dan asked. "He don't look like he's hardly breathin'."

Mingo had led the big frontiersman into the cave and was kneeling now next to Nicholas Knightsford where he lay huddled close to the interior wall. "I have seen him this way before," Mingo answered as he shifted Nicholas' cloak over his shoulder and then stood up.

"Then you two _do_ know each other?"

"Long ago, Daniel. A lifetime ago."

Dan sized up his friend. "You're lookin' mighty puny yourself, Mingo. And mighty peculiar. Where'd you get the English uniform?"

The Cherokee didn't seem to want to answer. "It was in the place where Nicholas found me. Its…former owner had no need of it."

"And that would be?"

Mingo had turned away. He pivoted back. "What?"

"Where Nicholas found you…."

Unexpectedly, his Indian friend snapped. "They are Henry Pitcairn's! Are you satisfied?"

"Pitcairn's? Mingo, what're you talkin' about. Henry Pitcairn is long gone."

Mingo walked to the cave mouth where he stood staring off into the wintry world. As Dan followed him he said, "Oh, he is _gone_ , all right. We found him dead. Hanging from the ceiling of the Place of 1000 Spirits."

"Hangin'? Who hung him? The Shawnee? Toka, you think?"

Mingo shook his head. He wrapped his arms about his linen shirt and shuddered. "No, Daniel. It was by his own hand. Henry Pitcairn is now one of the damned."

"You're talkin' from that Indian side of yours again, Mingo."

The Cherokee snorted. "Even my father's religion believes that those who die by their own hand are condemned to perdition. _Your_ religion, Daniel. Why will your parson not bury a suicide within the church grounds?"

Dan shrugged. "Superstition. Narrow minded men."

"Or wise ones, who offer no safe harbor to a spirit damned." Mingo's near black eyes were wide. "He was _here,_ Daniel. Tonight. Just before you arrived. In fact, when you woke me, I thought you were he."

"Who? Pitcairn?" Dan leaned his weight on Ticklicker. He shook his head. "I thought you said he was _dead_ , Mingo."

His Cherokee friend met his skeptical gaze. "He is. Believe me, Daniel. He is." As he spoke the words, Mingo swayed. His dark eyes closed and he started to fall, but caught himself.

"Mingo, you're plumb worn out," Dan said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "How long's it been since you had somethin' to eat?"

He shook his head. "I do not remember."

"And Nicholas? How long's he been with you?"

"A day, maybe more." Mingo frowned, as if he noticed something in the way he asked it. "What is it, Daniel?"

The frontiersman shook his head. "There's somethin' that's botherin' me. You said Nicholas found you in the Place of 1000 Spirits?"

"Yes."

"I don't know how he could have. He and I traveled from Boonesborough together. We parted north of the river. It was near a full day's walk to the cave and yet, seems he got to you in only a few hours."

"You must be mistaken, Daniel."

Dan shook his head. "Nope." Then he smiled. "Oh well, it's somethin' to start a conversation with when he wakes. Now you go back there with him and get some shut eye."

"No. I can't…."

"Mingo. Ghost or no ghost, you ain't gonna make it back to the settlement without food and some sleep." Dan hefted Ticklicker. "I'll take care of the first part. It's up to you to look to the second."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo watched his friend go and then turned back to where Nicholas Knightsford lay sleeping as one dead. He moved into the deep shadows that cradled his friend and sat down close by his prone form. With Daniel's departure an unnatural stillness settled over the cave. There was no sound. Not even of his old friend breathing.

Uneasy, Mingo began to hum.

The song was familiar, though he couldn't quite recall where he had heard it. His rich baritone filled the emptiness, soothing him, and in time he fell asleep and the cave fell into silence.

Until another took up the tune.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"What _now?_ " Rebecca Boone scowled as a knock sounded at her cabin door. She removed her apron and straightened her hair, and then pointed a finger at her small white-haired son who was attempting to wrestle a ball of her best yarn away from the slender deer he had adopted and named Rosebud. "Israel," she ordered, "you take that deer outside, and Jemima – "

"Yes, Ma?" Her daughter answered from _under_ the kitchen table – Jemima had taken refuge there, hiding from her brother's fat white goose who was doing a dance on the tabletop, enjoying one of his noisier tantrums.

"Catch Hannibal and get him out of my sight before he ends up plucked and served on a platter!"

Jemima's brown bangs and eyes showed above the table's scuffed surface. "Catch him? _How?"_

Becky blew out a breath, lifting a lock of flour-dusted copper hair out of her eyes. "How should I know? Use your father's net!"  
"Yes, Ma'am!"

Before opening the door, Becky paused to collect herself. For all she knew the governor general of Virginia could be standing outside – it _had_ happened before. It was early evening. The sun had only just set. The wind had picked up again and Cincinnatus' bursitis had told them all that there was more snow on the way. She had only left the settlement a few hours before, using the remainder of her trip there to pick up a few supplies and pay a visit to the parson's wife. Before she left the tavern the older man had warned her to batten down and caulk the chinks in the cabin walls because he thought it was going to be a 'whopper'.

"Dan, where _are_ you?" Becky sighed before she opened the door.

Outside, cast in silhouette against the frigid blue-white world, was a petite figure she recognized as Jeanne DuCharme. The woman was cloaked and hooded but still attired in her thin gown. A bit of the blue petticoat peeked out against the snow. Becky glanced beyond Jeanne to see who had escorted her to the cabin, but could find no one.

As she hesitated Jeanne lowered her hood, revealing her upswept black-brown hair and pale perfect face, and asked, "May I come in, Madame Boone?"

"Oh! Certainly. Forgive me, Jeanne. And please, call my Becky. I was just surprised to see you – and alone."

The Frenchwoman opened her mouth to reply, but hesitated as Israel barreled toward the two of them with Rosebud in tow – having fashioned a makeshift halter for the deer out of her best yarn. "Comin' through!" he shouted. Israel paused at his mother's disapproving look and tipped his miniature coonskin cap. "Mighty fine to meet you, Ma'am. Now if you'll pardon me – " With that, he and the deer disappeared out the door.

Jemima was standing close by, the recalcitrant Hannibal still squawking and squirming mightily in her arms. "Can't we just eat him, Ma?" she asked exasperated.

Becky laughed. "Toss Hannibal in the yard and go find your brother. Then come and greet our guest."

Her daughter's eyes went wide as Jeanne removed her cloak to reveal the elegant sapphire saque gown. "Sure thing, Ma!" she said with a smile as she headed out into the yard.

"You'll have to excuse us. The snow has driven most everything in," Becky apologized, "and all sanity out!".

Jeanne turned in a circle, surveying their home. "There is no need to apologize… Beck-ee. It is all so…well…rustically _charmer_."

The Frenchwoman's tone and upturned nose indicated she thought it was really something quite different.

Jeanne tossed her burgundy cloak over one of the chairs pushed up against the kitchen table and then moved to the hearth. Once there she settled like a visiting queen in the high-backed settee.

As Becky crossed to where she sat, she bit her tongue. 'Have a seat, why don't you?' she thought. Then she inquired politely, "May I ask what brought you here?"

"I wanted to thank you for your kindness," Jeanne began. "You went très out of your way for a perfect stranger."

'Perfect' was right, Becky thought, studying her. Jeanne was almost unreal. Her skin too white, her eyes too blue – her hair the deep brown of midnight shadows. "It's what we do," she said simply. "No one would survive for long on the frontier without others doing their part. And it's our Christian duty."

Jeanne's pert mouth pursed. "Oui. So I have heard."

At that moment the front door opened and Israel and Jemima returned. Israel was stomping so hard he left a mountain of snow at every step. "Ma! Mima made me leave Hannibal and Rosebud outside!"

Becky turned to look at him. "Well, what did you expect when I told you to take them out?"

"But its colder than the belly of a duck in a ice pond out there. They'll freeze!"

"Rosebud has plenty of hay to bed down in, young man, and that goose loves the cold. This cabin is _not_ a barn!" Her stern words hid her smile. Israel's pout could have melted all of the snow in Kentucky. "Now, where are your manners, young man?"

Israel gulped and removed his hat. "Good evenin', Ma'am," he said.

"Ma'am," Jemima repeated with a little curtsy.

"Jeanne. Please," the stranger said with a frown. " _Ma'am_ makes me feel très old."

"Are you from France?" Jemima blurted out and then covered her mouth with her hand, realizing she had spoken out of turn.

Jeanne shook her head at Becky's scolding look. "No offense taken, Mademoiselle Boone. Oui. Paris, of late."

"Paris. Gosh…. I'd love to see Paris."

"It is infinitely exciting and extravagantly beautiful. As are you," Jeanne added, her voice pitched low. "I hope you _may_ see it one day. The young men there… They would think you magnifique!"

Becky's chastising look turned to a frown. Her daughter was obviously enchanted with their visitor – just as it seemed every male in Boonesborough was. "Jemima?"

It took her a second. "Yes, Ma?"

"Take your brother to the loft and put him to bed."

As Israel protested Jemima nodded, but she also asked, "Can I come back down?"

Becky thought about it a moment and then gave her permission. "For a little while."

"Thanks, Ma!" Jemima whirled and pointed a finger at her brother in unconscious imitation of her mother. "Now you! Stop your belly-aching and come on."

After the children had disappeared up the ladder, Jeanne rose from her seat and moved to look out one of the cabin windows. The moon was high now. It turned the white waves to blue.

"Your husband has not returned?" she asked.

Becky went to join her. "No."

"You are worried about him?"

She nodded. "And Mingo. And that kind stranger who went with Dan to help find him."

"Stranger?" Jeanne's interest was keen. "What stranger? Did he give his name?"

Becky hesitated. "Why? Are you looking for someone?"

Jeanne met her wary gaze. For a second the intensity of her look made Becky dizzy. Then that feeling was gone – but it left her slightly light-headed. Jeanne seemed to consider whether or not to speak, but then she admitted it was so with a soft-spoken, "Oui."

Becky crossed to the table and poured a mug of water. She sipped it and then, bracing herself with a hand on the table's surface, turned back. "A man?" she asked.

"Oui," again.

"His name wouldn't happen to be Nicholas, would it? Nicholas Knightsford?"

Jeanne's reaction was as intense as her gaze. She seemed to shudder from head to toe – overwhelmed by relief and infused with anger at one and the same time. 'The idiot! I told him it was a fool's errand, but would he listen? Does he _ever_ listen to me?" At Becky's startled look, she stopped and modified her tone. "Nichola's passion for 'scholarly investigation' will be the end of him one day."

"Investigation?"

Jeanne nodded. "This Cherokee – your husband's friend – is he also part Anglais?"

"Mingo's father is English, yes. Why? Is that important?"

"Nichola had some absurd notion that this Cherokee could help him with his impossible quest. And now, on top of dragging me to the very _end_ of civilization, the man whom he is seeking is most likely a pile of frozen flesh and bones!"

"Ma?"

Becky pivoted to find Jemima had returned from the loft. "Is there something wrong with Mingo? Is that why Pa went out in the snow?"

Becky scowled at the stranger as she crossed to put her arm about her daughter's shoulders. Jeanne was certainly self-centered. _She_ hadn't told the children for fear of worrying them.

"We don't know yet, Jemima. We just have to wait – and pray."

Jeanne placed her gloved hand over her mouth which had formed a small round 'o'. " _M'excuser._ I did not mean to speak out of turn. I am certain your friend is all right." Turning, Jeanne caught her cloak up off the chair and headed for the door. "When I see him, I will send him home – along with your husband."

Becky followed her to the door. "You can't mean to go out in this frightful weather! Listen to the wind…."

Jeanne had opened the door. It was howling like the angry dead.

"I do not fear the wind, nor the wild night," the Frenchwoman said as tendrils of her deep brown hair whipped about her face like living things and her cloak snapped in the wind. "Only Nichola losing his way. Bonne nuit, Beck-ee. We _shall_ meet again!"

Becky stood staring after Jeanne until the woman's petite form was swallowed by the deep blue shadows of the fallen night. A moment later Jemima came to her side and placed her arm about her waist.

"Who was she, Ma?" Jemima asked.

Becky shook her head. "I don't know – and I very much doubt I want to."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

All around them the world was silver-blue, the cooler hue a welcome change from the frigid blinding white of the day, but no less dangerous – perhaps even more so. At night the shadows cradling the undulating snowy downs proved deceptive, offering footing where there was none, in hopes of drawing a man down into their cold killing embrace. Dan and Nicholas were standing on the top of one such dune, waiting for Mingo to catch up. They had traveled half the night and were nearing Chota – though there was no sign of the Cherokee village yet. Dan was worried about his friend. He wished he knew more about what nearly freezing to death could do to a man.

Mingo was not himself.

As Nicholas Knightsford came alongside him, Dan looked at the blond stranger. Nicholas had given his cloak to Mingo to place over the Redcoat uniform he wore, so he was dressed only in his light blue great-coat. His cheeks were rosy, giving him a healthier look than usual and he moved with ease, as if totally unaffected by the cold. In fact, Nicholas looked as if he had just taken a stroll on a warm spring day. Dan shivered and pulled his heavy winter coat closer about his throat. The wind had picked up and its icy breath cut through even the heavy buckskin and multiple layers of clothing he wore beneath.

"Beautiful night!" Nicholas exclaimed, looking up at the sky and the bright stars dotting it.

"If you're a white cat waitin' to catch his dinner," Dan countered, shaking snowflakes from his cap. "You grow up at the North Pole?"

Nicholas laughed. "No. No. But I find the crisp air invigorating." As his gaze fell on Mingo who was laboring up the hill, he added quietly, "Would that my old friend found it so."

Dan's eyes followed his. The Cherokee had walked alone – either behind or ahead of them – the whole time. "Mingo said you had some medical trainin', that right?"

"A little."

"Can comin' that close to freezin', well, change a man?"

Nicholas was completely sober now. "How?"

"Well, Mingo tends to be quiet. Gettin' him to share somethin' personal is like tryin' to pull a hen's teeth. But most of the time, 'specially when we're out huntin' or trappin', he's right pleasurable to have at your side. Smilin', singin'. Just bein' downright ornery when he feels like it. But I don't think I've ever seen him just plain _mean_ before."

The blond thought about it a moment and then shook his head. "There is no medical science, though some progressive physicians have noted a propensity toward cardiac problems later in life as a result of the strain put on the heart. Nothing behavioral." Nicholas waved to Mingo who had almost gained the white hill. "I hesitated to say anything myself, Daniel. It has been many years since I have known him. But by comparison with what I remember, I would have to concur. Mingo's behavior is irregular."

At that moment the object of their discussion topped the rise and pushed between them, growling as he began the descent down the other side. "Well, are you coming?" Mingo hurled after him.

"That, Nicholas," Dan said as he shifted his cap back and snorted, forming a gray cloud on the blue-white air, "is puttin' it mildly."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Two hours later, near midnight, they reached Chota. Mingo had not spoken a word on the journey there. They were stopped briefly at the perimeter of the village by several young warriors dressed in leggings and skins, who then smiled and waved them on when they realized the two white men were traveling with their chief's beloved nephew. Mingo led them into the Cherokee encampment and escorted them to the lodge he occupied when he was there, and then vanished – again without a word.

Dan and Nicholas exchanged glances. Nothing more was necessary. It was evident something was terribly wrong with their friend. A short time later Dan bedded down to get some sleep, confident that – in his own village – Mingo would be looked after. As he rolled over, pulling his cap over his eyes to block out the single lantern, he watched Nicholas draw a book from his pack and use the light to peruse its contents.

Sometime later he awoke to find Nicholas gone and Chota's chief standing over him; a slightly paunchy and painted Cherokee at his side.

Dan shifted his cap back and sat up. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he greeted him, "Menewa."

"What has happened, Boone?"

"Happened?" Dan asked.

"To Cara-Mingo."

"Why?" He was instantly alert. "Ain't he here?"

"He is here," Menewa nodded, touching his head. Then his hand fell to his chest, to the area above his heart. "But not _here_."

Dan's eyes flicked to the older man with Menewa. He was heavy-set, as if he didn't hunt or do any strenuous work. He looked to be about sixty – _ancient_ for a Cherokee. The man's face was painted blue and covered with mystic symbols. In his hair there were eagle feathers. Taken all together, it was obvious he was a medicine man. But it was not Galunadi, the one Dan had met before.

"You gonna introduce me to your friend?" he asked.

"This, Boone, is Ga-no-tsi a-do-nv-do."

Dan thought about it a moment. "Leather-heart?"

Menewa nodded. "His heart is true. No power can corrupt him." The Cherokee chief's voice dropped so low Dan had a hard time hearing him. "Not even the power of a witch."

"A witch? What are you – "

As Dan spoke, the blanket covering the lodge door was pulled aside and Nicholas Knightsford entered. He wiped his lip with his finger and then smiled. "Am I interrupting something?"

Dan shifted uncomfortably. "Menewa here just brought up the subject of witches." He looked at the chief. "Why don't you and Leather-heart here take a load off and sit down? Seems like we got us some discussin' to do."

Menewa frowned as he looked at Nicholas. "I do not know this white man."

Nicholas was unflapped. He made a bow and then said, his voice low and compelling. "My name is Nicholas. _You do not need to know me. I mean your nephew and your people no harm. Tell me what you know."_

Dan frowned as he listened to him. There was a tug, and a moment where the world spun – something like what a man felt when he'd had one too many rounds of cheer and tried to stand up. It lasted a few seconds and then was gone. He shook his head and focused on the chief again just in time to hear Mingo's uncle say –

"I do not need to know you. You mean Mingo no harm. I will tell you what I know. Please sit, Nicholas."

The blond smiled. As he took a seat, Dan muttered under his breath, "Neat trick. You gotta teach me that sometime."

Nicholas shrugged as if puzzled, but it wasn't long before his boyish smile turned into an ancient frown.

"Where is Mingo?" Dan asked the two Cherokee.

"In my lodge," Leather-heart answered. "And there he will remain."

"Against his will?"

Menewa shook his head. "His choice, Boone."

Nicholas Knightsford leaned forward eagerly. "What is this about a witch? Pray, explain your reasoning."

"We do not speak of such things lightly," Leather-heart answered. "And not to those not of the People."

Again the voice. Coupled with an intense stare. " _You will tell me. You have nothing to fear from either Daniel or myself_ ," he said.

Leather-heart blinked as if stunned.

Menewa answered for him. "Mingo believes he has been touched by a Raven Mocker."

Dan frowned. He'd heard the term before. A Raven Mocker was the most dreaded of Cherokee witches. They were men or women who took the form of a raven and came when a person was dying to rob them of their remaining life. A Cherokee doctor or healer – a powerful one – could drive them away. He didn't know what that meant for the victim who survived such an attack.

"Mingo believes one of these witches attacked him?" he asked.

"Believes it? No. He knows it is so," Leather-heart pronounced with a downward thrust of his hand. "And what is more, the witch was not alone."

Menewa dropped his head. "Now, my nephew is not alone."

"What are you talking about?" Nicholas asked.

"A man who opens the lodge door of death is like a sleeper before waking," the medicine man replied. "He has no weapons – no bow, no shield to protect him."

"So he is vulnerable, you are saying?"

"Yes," Menewa pronounced, looking up and meeting their astonished looks. "Mingo has opened such a door. A spirit has come in."

"You're talking demon possession," Nicholas declared.

Dan was silent a moment, then he said softly, "Menewa, meaning no disrespect, but that ain't possible."

Nicholas turned to him. " 'And Jesus asked him, 'What is thy name?' And he answered, saying, 'My name is Legion: for we are many'."

Leather-heart nodded. "I know your god's book. It speaks many truths."

Becky would be the first to back that up, Dan thought to himself. But it flew in the face of everything he believed – in the good solid earth, in things a man could see and hold. "And just who do you and Mingo think is possessin' him?"

Neither native had to answer.

"Henry Pitcairn," Nicholas Knightsford said.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Mingo couldn't get the images out of his mind. Old men and women, children and their mothers, boys not yet men – all running, screaming, pleading, _dying_ – and each and every one of them pointing at him. He sat in the middle of the healer's tent with a fire breathing healing smoke before him, seeking to cleanse himself of the contamination of a dead man not willing to rest. Leather-heart had agreed with him. Pitcairn's boots, touching the lieutenant's body as he died, had become a refuge for the white man's restive spirit and when Mingo placed them on his feet –

Henry Pitcairn had become a part of him.

It would not have happened had he not been so weak. But the fact that he

had been close to dying himself had formed an unholy bond between them. Leather-heart believed the Raven Mocker had first attacked Henry Pitcairn and that, at the moment when the witch would have claimed the Englishman's spirit – taking for itself his remaining years of life and leaving him an empty husk – Mingo had stumbled upon them. In turn, the Mocker had sought to kill _him_. Nicholas Knightsford's arrival had prevented the witch from accomplishing this heinous act and, in that moment when the Mocker was thwarted, a window or door into his soul had been left wide open which had permitted Henry Pitcairn's restless spirit to enter into him.

Leather-heart finished with a word of warning – this, the healer said, meant that Nicholas too must be a part of the spirit world.

Mingo closed his eyes and breathed in more of the healing smoke, but to no avail. Written in crimson on his mind's eyes was the death of two hundred innocent Shawnee. And next to that, the death of other innocents – men, women, and children, not only red but white – their throats torn open, their bodies left without blood.

He did not know where this second vision came from, whether Henry Pitcairn was a sadistic butcher in his own right – or whether he was seeing through someone _else's_ eyes as well.

Unable to contain the grief and pain, Mingo rose to his feet. He dropped the blanket Leather-heart had placed about his shoulders and paced bare-chested about the room, humming Henry Pitcairn's haunted tune. Stopping by a low bench made of branches and covered with skins, he caught up the only clothes he had – Pitcairn's linen shirt and scarlet coat. Donning them again, Mingo walked to the lodge door and gazed out. His uncle had left one of his warriors standing guard. Beyond the tanned and muscled form, the sky was white once again. A new snow had begun to fall.

It called him.

The only peace he would know would be that of the grave.

Catching one of Leather-heart's instruments from the floor – a wooden stick with a bear claw at it's end – Mingo approached the door. Feigning illness, he called out feebly and when the warrior rushed in, clubbed him on the back of the head, rendering him unconscious.

Then, barefoot, Mingo fled into the cold white night.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

For the third time in as many days Cincinnatus was awakened by a determined knock on the tavern door when there shouldn't have been any. Grumbling as he pulled a jacket over his night-shirt, he carefully descended the steps to the main floor and crossed the common room. Setting his candlestick on one of the tables, he turned the key and opened the door to find – not a handsome blond stranger nor an equally beautiful brunette woman – but a snowy-haired British general in full military dress, accompanied by a half dozen armed Redcoats.

"G-gentlemen," Cincinnatus said over the lump in his throat. "Would you be looking for a drink? Er…General…?"

"LaCroix. Lucien LaCroix." The white-haired general strode into the tavern as if he were in command – which he was – and flung his gloves down on one of the tables. LaCroix turned then and fixed Cincinnatus with his ice blue stare. "That – among other things."

As the rest of his company followed, entering the room, the tavern-keep pivoted toward the bar. "I'm afraid there ain't any victuals left, but I've plenty of rum…."

"My good man, do we look like rum-hounds?" LaCroix growled menacingly.

"Well, no. It's just…." Cincinnatus turned back. "Well, it's a cold night and a bit of rum will warm any man's innards, I think. British or Colonial…."

The British general crossed to his side. Pitching his voice low, LaCroix said, 'That was your first mistake, my good man. _Animals_ should never try to 'think'. _Now, you will listen to my voice and answer my questions truthfully,_ or…." The man's fingers found a purchase around his throat. "…I will kill you."

Cincinnatus didn't answer. He couldn't until the tension eased. But he nodded his head.

"Good man." LaCroix's grip lessened – slightly. "Yes or no will do for now. Have you seen a man who goes by the name Nicholas Knightsford?"

Cincinnatus' gulped. "Y-yes."

"Good. Good man. One down. Was he with a brown-haired beauty?"

"N-no."

The fingers tightened, pressing until he feared he would black out. "No? You have not seen her?"

"Seen h-her," he rasped. "She…she weren't with him. Came…alone."

"Ah! So the prey has _two_ hunters." The British general's thin lips curled in a well-practiced sneer. "Nicholas had better hope the fairer of the two finds him first. Where did he go?"

Cincinnatus struggled against the power in LaCroix's voice, against his own fear of death, but the combination of the two was more than he could take. "He was…looking for Mingo. Went after him." The grip had lessened again so speaking was easier, if still painful. "Told him to check with the Boones, or maybe go to Chota."

"Chota?"

"The Cherokee village."

The general's ice blue eyes narrowed. Then he laughed. "Cherokee! This 'Mingo' – does he have another name? Quick!"

"Don't know none." Cincinnatus swallowed again as the grip increased, cutting off his air. "Lessen it would be… 'Cara-Mingo'."

"Cara-Mingo…. _Kerr_ -a-Mingo? What a delightful name. Trips off the tongue, don't you think? Well?"

The world was spinning, fading from the familiar to a false night. "I… wouldn't… rightly…. know…" he said as the man's fingers contracted tightly and then, dizzyingly, released him. Cincinnatus struck the wooden floor of the tavern with a dull thud.

"No. I can see that you don't. But someone here will. Baker!"

One of the Redcoats snapped to attention. "General LaCroix, sir!"

"Kindly inquire of the locals where we can find the Boone's home." Cincinnatus felt a British boot nudge his side just as he passed into oblivion.

"We have a house call to make."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Damn it! What was he thinking?" Nicholas Knightsford shouted. The boyish-looking blond stood in the center of the healer's hut, a pair of British boots in his hand. "The fool!"

Dan was kneeling, his fingers tracing the pattern left by one of Mingo's bare feet. "It's plain he _ain't_ thinkin'. At least, not clearly. If the cold don't kill him, he's sure to lose toes."

"Frost bite is the least of Mingo's worries," Nicholas growled. He walked to the lodge door and looked out. The sun was dawning in the sky, turning the pale blue snow, lavender and pink. "We must go now. I have, perhaps, two hours I can travel without cover. In that time, I hope we can catch him. Thank goodness, he has been gone no more than an hour at most."

When he had seen Nicholas looking deathly pale back in the cave, Dan had asked Mingo what was the matter. With a few words his friend had explained that Nicholas Knightsford had a condition that could kill him. He couldn't abide the touch of the sun.

"You willin' to risk exposure?"

He nodded. "If it comes to it, you can leave me behind and continue on alone. You said it yourself, unprotected Mingo has little hope of survival."

"Maybe it'd be better if you just stayed behind. Here, in the village." Dan watched his face. "Two hours ain't much time."

Nicholas was at war within himself. The struggle was evident. His jaw was tight and his hands clenched. The look out of his pale blue eyes was tormented.

"No. He is my friend. I will _not_ abandon him."

"Nicholas."

"Yes?"

"Who are you?" Dan asked.

The blond looked nonplussed. "What do you mean?"

"You come out of nowhere in a blindin' snowstorm. You got no baggage, no coach or horse. You don't feel the cold, and can't stand the heat of the sun." Dan tipped his coonskin cap back on his head. "I know how to work a sum, and you just _don't_ add up."

Nicholas Knightsford met his questioning stare. "Trust me, Daniel. You don't want to know."

"Why are you here? What brought a cultured man like you to Boonesborough.? It wasn't Mingo, was it?"

"In a way, yes." His smile was quick. It fled almost as quickly. "And no. Years ago Kerr…Mingo and I were friends. We had a mutual interest in Indian lore. Particularly the Raven Mocker legend."

"The witch that steals a man's life as he's dyin'…."

"But there is more. The Raven Mocker is also a shape-shifter. He or she can alter their form and then turn back – at will. It is said there have also been Mockers who have desired to return to the mortal world, and who have done so through their knowledge and the choice to do good. Their understanding of native herbs, of their uses – of spells, if you will – is as legendary as their very existence."

Dan frowned. "So?"

"You have guessed I am not…like you, Daniel. This illness – this disease that infects me – it keeps me from living as a normal man. From having friends, from remaining in any one place too long, from loving and marrying a woman like your good and beautiful wife." The look out of Nicholas' eyes was sincere, though Dan sensed not entirely honest. "I want what other men have."

"And you think a Cherokee Raven Mocker can give it to you?"

He nodded. "Yes. But I had not anticipated finding one at the expense of my old friend's life."

Now _that_ was honest.

Dan was silent a moment. Then he placed his hand on Nicholas' shoulder. "Let's get movin', friend. Times a wastin'."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Becky gulped. It _was_ the Governor General of Virginia again – or at the very least his equivalent.

"How…how can I help you?" she stammered.

"Well, dear lady," the white-haired British general wearing an elegant trimmed-out dress uniform said, his upper lip curling in a warped approximation of a smile, "inviting me in would be an excellent first step."

"Oh! I'm sorry. It's just that Redcoats don't often stop by for a social call," she said with a little bit of fire.

"Oh, but I assure you, dear lady, my purpose here is _purely_ social." The man removed his hat and bowed. "Brigadier General Lucien LaCroix at your service, Mrs. Boone?"

"Rebecca. Rebecca Boone. My husband isn't home."

"But it is _you_ I have come to see. May I?" LaCroix indicated the threshold with his startling ice blue eyes.

She nodded. "I was just sitting down to tea. Would you like some?"

The sneer again – almost a snarl. Of anticipation?

"I don't drink…tea. But thank you anyhow." General LaCroix strode into the cabin, leaving his lackeys to wait behind in the falling snow. As she closed the door, shutting him off from them, he indicated the small coat and shawl by the door. "Oh. You have children?"

"Two." And thank the good Lord they were both asleep!

"A boy and…a girl. I imagine she's lovely."

Becky's hands went to her hips. "Pardon me, General…what was your name again?"

"LaCroix. It means 'the cross' in French."

Well, _that_ was certainly a misnomer! "General LaCroix, what exactly is it that you want? You certainly didn't come here to chat."

He put his hand to his chest. "You wound me, dear lady. But you are also wise. Just a little information."

"Information? About what?" she asked suspiciously.

"I understand you had a visitor? A certain young man. Blond. Blue eyes. Cultured and well-educated?"

She scowled. "Maybe. What's it to you?"

"Ah, the Irish reputation for a hot temper! It shows at last. What was your maiden name, O'Malley? O'Reilly?"

"Bryan, as if it's any of your business. What do you want with Nicholas?"

His smile this time dripped venom. "And is that any of _your_ business, Mrs. Boone?"

"Since he's out in the snow with my husband it is – " Becky's hand flew to her mouth and she stamped her foot. _That_ was stupid.

" 'The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree'," General LaCroix quoted softly as he approached her. "Now, Mrs. Boone, I tire of this game. You will tell me all I want to know, or I will waken one of those beating hearts in your loft and demand the answer of _them_."

Becky's eyes went wide. "They're only children."

LaCroix's sneer was laden with pleasure. "I know. Now, where is Nicholas?"

"He's…he's with my husband, searching for Mingo like I said. I don't know any more."

"Is that so?" The general's pallid hand caught her throat. With one finger he traced a path there, then stopped when that finger encountered the cross circling her neck. He snarled and shoved her away. "Take that thing off!"

Becky felt the tug to do as he said, but resisted. "No."

"What? How _dare_ you defy me?" LaCroix seemed genuinely perplexed. _"Come now!"_ he ordered, his voice shifting, becoming softer and much more intense. " _Take it off!"_

Again, she shook it off. "No."

The general's blue eyes narrowed and he laughed – a short harsh bark. "A resistor! Imagine that. Here, amongst the savages."

As he spoke the door opened and one of his men stuck his head inside. "Men coming, sir. What should we do?"

General LaCroix's insincere smile returned. "I have learned enough. We shall depart. And as for you, dear lady," the sneer grew ravenous, "we _shall_ meet again."

Becky remained still, watching him go, and then she ran to the door and looked down the path before the cabin. Two men were hustling her way, the light of the torch they carried painting the blue snow a sick yellow-green.

"Becky, you all right?" a breathless Yadkin asked as he came within sight of her.

She nodded. "They've gone."

"Them Redcoats, you mean?" Yadkin was looking after the departing column. He turned then to his companion and asked the other man, "That who you was talkin' about, old man?"

Cincinnatus seemed scattered. "I…. Well, I don't rightly know. I think so."

"You don't rightly know! Well, was it them or weren't it?"

"I… I don't…" As he spoke, Cincinnatus paled and began to fall.

"Yad! Get him inside," Becky ordered as she caught one of the older man's arms. Once inside she went to get him a drink of water. When she returned with it, Cincinnatus was sitting with his head back against the high-backed settee. "What happened?"

Cincinnatus accepted the cup. He took a sip and then said, "I ain't sure, Becky. I was in bed, and then I woke up on the floor in the tavern. I'm too old a man to be sleep-walkin'."

"What brought you here?"

"A feelin'," Yad answered for him. "A feelin' that you was in danger."

A feeling.

Becky walked to the door of the cabin and looked out. She had a feeling too.

Dan and Mingo were in unimaginable peril.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo stumbled blindly through the snow. Above his head the sky turned, exchanging the night's pale blues for the hideous white of a world forever frozen in time. There was no sound. No birds cried. No wolves howled. Nothing moved. Nothing but him, and his pace was very slow. He had torn his shirt tail off and wrapped the linen strips about his feet, seeking some protection from the icy floor he walked. But his toes were nearly frozen and he knew if he did not find shelter quickly, he might lose them. He knew as well that he shouldn't care. That when he left the healer's lodge he had intended to lie down in the snow, to let it bury him, and disappear from memory. But something in him would not bend to that final shame.

If a white death took him, it would be upright and as a man.

Mingo did not know what direction he was headed, though the voices in his head and the spirits who walked with him would not let him choose any other path. Whenever he glanced back he saw them, a curious mixture of men, women, and children moving along with him. Some had bodies bloodless as the snow, with open throats howling in the spirit wind. Others had died shot, bayoneted, or screaming as they were put to the knife. But all cried out to him, every one beckoned him. And all the while they did he sang, seeking to drown out their voices.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"As I was a going over Gillgarry Mountain,  
I spied Colonel Farrell and his money he was countin'.  
First I drew me pistol and then I drew me rapier,  
Sayin' stand and deliver for I am your bold deceiver.

Musha rig um du rum da, whack fol the daddy-o.

Whack fol the daddy-o…there's whiskey in the jar.

There's whiskey in the jar.

There's whiskey in the jar…."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sometime later, maybe an hour, maybe more – exhausted, expended – Mingo fell to his knees and then landed face down in the cold, white snow. Above his head the morning light was just breaking, forcing the night's shadows to retreat. As he lay there, breathing heavily, the rag-tag shadow army moved forward, dragging across the snow to gather about him. First came the children whose round red-rimmed eyes could know no rest. Then their mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, lonely and angry in their pain. The spirits of Wi-sha-sho spoke not a word, but formed a circle about his prone form and kept a silent watch –

Waiting for him to die.

Mingo turned his face so it was free of the snow and rose up on one elbow to stare at them. As he did the spirits faded away to nothing, only to be replaced by a single lanky figure – a long lean man with dark hair and a scrub of a beard, wearing a bright scarlet coat.

It was Henry Pitcairn.

"What do you want of me?" Mingo shouted as he painfully clawed the snow, pulling his body back, away from the terror before him. "Tell me! What is it you want?"

The British officer approached him and knelt by his side. Paralyzed, Mingo watched in horror as Henry Pitcairn reached out with a hand and touched his flesh.

"I want you," he said.

From the tips of Pitcairn's ghastly white fingers an unnatural cold radiated, moving quickly through his frame. Mingo gasped. He felt his heart slow. Time was suspended.

And then the memory of who he was began to fade into blackness.

Just before it would have entirely disappeared Mingo heard a sound that drew him back. A peculiar cackle or squawk. The noise grew louder as a large black bird appeared, winging over their heads. As Mingo looked up the raven laughed, mocking his distress, and then began to descend.

When Henry Pitcairn saw the unnatural creature his watery eyes filled with stark terror. The soldier rose quickly to his feet and backed away. "No! No!" he cried. "You will not take me. No! Take him. Take _him!"_

Pitcairn turned and ran, becoming one with the falling snow, and as he did the black form alighted on the white forest floor. Its shadow flowed over the snowy dunes until it enveloped Mingo, wrapping him in a dark embrace. As he fell into it, the creature that cast it came to his side and knelt, placing a gloved hand on his chest. Then it lifted its head and tossed its burgundy hood back, revealing a head of dark upswept black-brown hair.

"I may not have found the cat," Jeanne DuCharme remarked, tracing Mingo's strong jaw with the tip of a pallid finger., "but I _have_ found his handsome canary."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"Daniel! Over here!"

He had been taking aim at a fat brown rabbit hopping from one white dune to the next. Now Dan turned to look at his curious traveling companion. He and Nicholas had kept moving throughout the night, pausing no more than a few minutes at a time to rest. Now the moon was gone, bedded down behind a horizon of black trees and white snow, and the sun was stretching its pale pink fingers across the land. Nicholas had pulled ahead of him and crouched halfway across the small clearing they walked, one hand brushing the snow. The other was waving, beckoning him forward.

Two dozen long legged strides took Dan to his side. "What is it? You find somethin'?"

"Someone has lain here. Not too long ago. And see – tracks of bare feet." Nicholas pointed at the ground. "But there is also this."

Dan rested one knee on the snow and reached out to touch the depression in the white stuff. " A boot print. 'Bout Mingo's size by the look of it."

"Yes. A tall man. And here – you can see the cut of the heel of a regulation British boot."

Dan touched that too. It went in deep. "Sure enough."

Nicholas sighed as he stood and turned his face to the sky. "I will need shelter soon, Daniel. It is a good thing the bare foot-prints indicate Mingo's path led him into the forest."

"Why would a man choose to walk in the snow without shoes?" Dan asked as he rose to his feet and dusted off his knee. "Seems like a mighty fine way to lose toes."

"Better than losing his mind," the blond murmured almost to himself, and then added, "Call it Cherokee superstition."

"I thought 'Cherokee superstition' was what brought you here."

"Not superstition, Daniel. Legend. _Myth_. Both of which most often have their origins in truth. Superstition is another thing. Do I toss salt over my shoulder to ward off evil spirits? No. Do I fear black cats? Again, no. Mingo and his healer believe he has been possessed by Henry Pitcairn simply because he donned a dead man's boots. That is utter nonsense." Nicholas flashed that smile. "I think the cold has gotten to him…."

"So you really don't believe Henry Pitcairn has taken Mingo over? In spite of your Bible quotes?"

Nicholas was silent for a moment. Then he favored him with a grim grin. "No. No, I don't. I am afraid I have a tendency to become overly dramatic at times. No, I assure you, Daniel, that Henry Pitcairn's bones are resting in that cave. Experience _and_ superstition both tell us that if a ghost _is_ walking the earth, it is tied to the place where it died."

Dan waited a moment. "I don't put much stock in ghosts."

Nicholas laughed. "That does not surprise me."

"But this Raven Mocker? You think _it's_ real?"

His companion glanced at the sky again and winced. Nicholas signaled him to follow and, as the sun crested above the horizon, the two of them crossed the remaining portion of the clearing to enter the shelter of the trees. Once safe in their embrace, Nicholas turned back to face him.

"You ask about the Raven Mocker. I am not certain," Nicholas paused, "but I think one was there when I entered the Place of 1000 Spirits and found Mingo nearly frozen."

" _In_ the cave?"

"There was a feeling of evil. And hunger. Shadows moving, as if with a life of their own. I believe there was someone – or some _thing_ there, Daniel. It fled when I arrived."

"So _you're_ what the monsters are afraid of?" Dan asked with a crooked grin.

Nicholas stiffened. A frown marred his boyish face. He said nothing but nodded once, and then disappeared into the shadows beneath the trees.

Dan stared after him a moment. He shook his head and, Ticklicker in hand, picked up the pace to follow.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo moaned and his eyelids fluttered. He drew in a deep breath, and then coughed when the breath brought smoke into his lungs. His opened eyes told him he was in some sort of a structure – it looked to be an abandoned cabin – that he was lying on a cot, and that there was a fire cheerily burning away on the hearthstones. He closed his eyes again, counted to ten, and then reopened them.

The cabin was still there. So was the fire.

He _wasn't_ hallucinating.

At least, he hoped he wasn't. At the moment there was a very attractive brunette angel in a sapphire gown gliding across the cabin floor to come to his side. The elegant fabric of her blue skirts rustled as she sat beside him and reached out to place a cool hand on his hot forehead. The angel gazed at him soberly for several heartbeats, her round red mouth pursed in a perfect pout, and then she sighed.

And – in French – called him an idiot.

"What?" he croaked, licking dry chapped lips. "Who are you?"

"Do you have snow dust in your eyes, _Kerr_ -a-Mingo? Or have I changed so that you do not know me?"

Mingo frowned as he fought to bring the speaker into focus. Was there such a thing as a _French_ angel? he wondered. His father, he knew, would have answered that query with a resounding 'no!'

"Perhaps _this_ will remind you…."

Then the angel did a perplexing thing. She placed her hand on his chest, leaned over, and kissed him!

As her fingers played with the lacings on his borrowed shirt and brushed the black hair beneath it, she brought her painted lips close to his ear. "Stirlingshire Manor. Perhaps ten years ago. The Drawing Room."

"The drawing…room?"

"I believe that is where you _ran_ ," the angel answered, unexpectedly coiling her fingers in his chest hair and pulling up sharply, plucking out a few hairs. As he yelped, she pronounced smartly, " _After_ you turned me down!"

Mingo's head was throbbing. His extremities and his frozen feet were on fire. He wasn't sure if someone asked his name if he could tell them – but he knew that petulant self-centered tone.

"Jeanne? Jeanne DuCharme?"

She tossed the hairs aside as she rose to her feet. "Oui."

"How did you…." Mingo glanced around at the cabin. "How did _I_ come to be here?"

"I found you alone, lying face down in the snow. Muttering as if there was someone there to hear. Most _particulier_."

"But there was someone there! There were people!" he insisted, sitting up. "Dozens of people – men, women, and children. Didn't you see them?"

Jeannette scowled at him as she returned to his side. "You are delirious."

"No, I am not. They followed me from the cave. They want me dead!" He was breathing fast now.

"Nonsense. If they followed you, then where are they?" She spread her hands wide. "Look around! There is no one here but you and me. When I found you, you were alone."

Mingo let out a sigh as he fell back against the pillow propped at the head of the cot. "Alone? Jeanne, I am _never_ alone. Not anymore. He is here," he pointed to his temple. "He is here with me, always, in my head."

"And I thought Nicholawas mad. It is no wonder he sought you out." She sat beside him again and scowled. "You are both…how do you say it? _Pareils?_ The same."

"Nicholas…. Yes, I was with Nicholas."

Her tone was eager. "When? Where?"

He shook his head. "It is cloudy now. Like everything…. There were lodges. And a village?"

"Chota?" she asked putting a name to the place.

"Yes. That is it. Chota." He frowned. "Why was I there?"

Jeannette rolled her deep blue eyes. "I was hoping _you_ could tell me! Knowing Nichola, this all has something to do with his being 'cured'. Madame Boone told me he came to this bucolic setting looking for you."

"Cured…yes…." Mingo closed his eyes. He remembered a time, not so long ago, when he had awakened to find his old friend Nicholas Knightsford leaning over him as Jeanne was now. It seemed a century ago. "A cure for his condition. A cure for the curse…."

"Curse?" Jeanne spat. "The only 'curse' Nichola bears is his own guilt and shame. If your shaman can cure him of _that_ , I will reward the man handsomely." He felt her lean in toward him and opened his eyes to find her beautiful face once again close to his. "And you _know_ I can."

Mingo didn't hear her. In his mind he had returned to the cave – to the Place of 1000 Spirits – to the moment when Nicholas had arrived. He tried to see his old friend's face, but it was a blur. In fact, Nicholas himself had no longer seemed human. He had become a black shadow – an absence of light.

And then he realized the one who had leaned over him was not Nicholas –

But _something_ else.

In his mind's eye the creature wrapped in shadows reached out toward him now. He felt its bony fingers touch his flesh – fingers cold as the white death waiting without. It laughed and the sound was harsh, like a bird cackling or a crow cawing. As it bent forward he became frozen – not with that cold – but in an icy prelude to death. Then he saw another form standing close behind it. A tall man, with a scrub of a beard, wearing a crimson uniform and a wicked sneer that lifted the corner of one lip.

Henry Pitcairn's clear blue eyes met his.

And they were one.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jeannette yelped and jumped to her feet as Mingo cast his covers aside and rose. He had seemed to fall into a trance, and then awakened without warning. Shoving her out of his way he limped to the door and checked it, making certain it was barred. Then he began circling the room, frantically moving from one piece of primitive furniture to another.

"What do you think you are doing?" Jeannette asked as he focused on one of the heavy wooden chairs butted up against a rough-hewn table. Mingo stopped at her voice but did not look at her. Then he lifted the chair high over his head and brought it down on the floor, breaking it into dozens of pieces. "Have you gone _mad_?" she cried.

"I have to keep it out," Mingo answered as he palmed one of the larger boards.

" _It?_ What are you raving about?" She followed him across the cabin. He had left the remaining bits of the chair behind to cross to a large cupboard. Once there he threw it open and began tossing its contents on the floor. "The man who uses this cabin in the summer months is going to be _très_ angry with you," she warned.

"It doesn't matter," he replied. "All that matters is the Raven Mocker. Don't you

understand? It wants me. I got away, and it wants me. It won't stop until it has me – and it

has employed those damned spirits from Wi-sha-sho to get me!"

Jeannette frowned. He wasn't making sense. "What _are_ you talking about?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When Mingo turned and met her eyes, Jeannette sensed immediately that something was terribly wrong. There was something within their black depths that simply was not – _him_. "Boone understood, I could see it in his eyes, even if the Indian – the _animal_ didn't," he continued. "I had to follow orders. That's what a soldier does." Mingo began to shift through the cupboard's contents again. "Doesn't this man _own_ a mallet?"

"A soldier? Since when were you a soldier?" she asked. "And what did you _do_?"

"What I _had_ to. Made a bargain with the Devil – Aha!" Mingo emerged from the depths of the cupboard with a wooden mallet gripped in his shaking fingers. "Triumph! _Victory_ , dear lady! Now we shall see if good old fashioned muscles and ingenuity can keep the Devil at bay."

Jeannette was scowling now. The patterns of his speech had changed . Even the way he held his body. There was a sort of swaggering arrogance about him that seemed wholly foreign to the man she remembered. She stepped closer to him. "It is said that one who bargains with the Devil takes a chance of being burned – eternally," she told him.

Mingo froze for just a second and then laughed. It was a curious, haunted hollow sound. "I have been damned, dear lady, since the first day I set foot in that cave. From the moment I recruited that hateful creature to aid me in my hour of need. I made certain it was there, among them, when the call to battle came. When my men slaughtered two hundred Shawnee animals, who would know that _one_ among them was _not_ Shawnee? But it didn't die…." His voice trailed off. "It _refused_ to die…."

His arm had dropped. The mallet hung limp in his fingers. Then it fell to the floor. A shudder ran through his lean, muscular body, and then Mingo turned black eyes on her.

"Jeanne," he said, his voice no more than a lost child's whisper, "help me…. I am lost."

And then he crumpled to the floor.

Janette ran to Mingo's side and knelt by him. Placing her hand on his chest, she felt his heart pounding hard as though a fever raged within him. She sat back and frowned, wondering what she should do. The room grew silent as the tomb and into that silence an unexpected sound bled. The sound of someone weeping. Janette turned her head toward the window. The sun was shining. A single beam striped the cabin floor. She dare not venture out until night. A look – even a glance out the window at this time would be tempting destruction.

Still, she _had_ to look.

Rising, she left Mingo on the floor and went to the window. Hugging the shadows inside the cabin, she raised two fingers to the curtain, careful not to let the sun's ray touch them. Then she pushed the curtain aside, cursing prettily as the beams of the dreaded daystar falling through the window's crossbar painted a shadow cross on the fallen man's back.

Outside, circling the cabin, were shadowy figures – men, women and children – all silent, all still.

And all copper-skinned.

Janette gasped and let the curtain go. She turned back to look at Mingo and was startled to find a black shape hovering over him. The cloaked creature cackled and lifted its head – the corrupted eyes within its tattered black hood fastening on her own.

"I know what you are," it said, its voice husky and dry as bone. "Do not try to stop me, or others will know as well."

Jeanne's jaw tightened. She straightened her spine and tossed her black-brown locks. "I am not afraid of you," she snarled. " _You_ should be afraid of me. Now get away from Mingo!"

The shadow, the absence of light, the Cherokee Raven Mocker croaked as it pointed a finger at the fallen man. "This one escaped me, but he could not escape the one who betrayed me. Henry Pitcairn is within him, and both will pay the price." The creature hobbled toward her, its eyes gleaming like sun on wet stone. "I will take this one's life, his remaining years – his soul! And you – creature of the night – even _you_ cannot stop me."

Jeanne shivered as the Raven Mocker drew close and a sense of evil deeper than her own assaulted her. Still, she would not back down. Furious, she struck out with her hand to pull its cloak of shadow away, to reveal the one who perpetrated this hoax and came away with nothing.

Her hand was empty

The Raven Mocker was gone.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel Boone awoke. It was late afternoon and already the sun had disappeared, leaving only a faint trail of light that painted the snow-covered world a pale purple. They had walked beneath the trees as long as Nicholas could abide the rising sun and then, when it reached its zenith, taken refuge in another of the many caves that dotted Kentucky's hills. He must have fallen asleep without realizing it. Dan stretched and then looked about for his companion.

Nicholas Knightsford was nowhere to be found.

Dan frowned, stretched again, and then rose to his feet. He picked up Ticklicker from the place where he had left her leaning against the wall and then ducked and headed out of the cave. Once outside his frown deepened. There were no footprints. Kneeling, he examined the ground. Since he couldn't frown any deeper, Dan pursed his lips and shook his head. Rising again, he looked up into the air.

Unless the man was able to fly like a bird it didn't make any sense.

Dan shrugged his shoulders and set out at a slow walk toward the surrounding trees. There must be a crust of ice on the snow here that made prints not stick, he told himself – even as his own booted feet left only faint impressions on its surface.

He hadn't walked very far when he heard voices raised in anger. Pausing, Dan got a bearing and then crouched and crawled toward the sound. Ahead of him, through a thicket of iced trees, were two figures. In the pale purple light he recognized Nicholas Knightsford. The other man he didn't know. He was tall, and wore a white wig and a thick military cloak that looked to be of British issue. Frowning again, Dan moved in closer to take a listen.

"…this pointless escapade," the older man said. "Do you really think you will find the answer here to your quest?"

"What I hope to find here is my soul!" Nicholas struck his chest with his hand. "A way _back_ , LaCroix. It has been done before."

"Bollocks, Nicholas. That is blather. Utter nonsense. There is no way back. Not for you. Not _ever_."

"I will prove you wrong! Leave me be. Give me time. Let me find my friend. Then together he and I will find the answer I seek."

Dan's ears perked up. 'His friend'. Nicholas had to mean Mingo. Dan crawled a little closer and listened intently.

"Ah, yes, dear old Kerr Murray. 'Mingo' now, I understand. What a _charming_ appellation." LaCroix threw his cloak back, revealing the British uniform beneath. "It seems – as usual – Nicholas, that you and I have something in common. I have come to find this same man. _What_ a coincidence!"

"Nothing is a coincidence with you, LaCroix," Nicholas growled. "What is your interest in Mingo?"

"Well, now, I can't have him leading my boy astray, can I?"

"Leave him alone!"

"That is what you should have done, Nicholas. Do not think you can _out-think_ me!" LaCroix snarled like a mountain cat perched to leap. "I know what you did. Bad boy! How _dare_ you interfere in my plans."

"How dare you attempt to use one of _my_ friends to further your own ends," Nicholas snapped back. "It will not happen LaCroix."

"Why? Because you intercepted the letter?"

Nicholas stiffened. Haltingly, he asked, "What…what letter?"

"Don't you know that it is a crime punishable by imprisonment to accost a courier of the Governor-general of the Virginia Territory and to steal what he carries?" LaCroix moved in as if for the kill. "And worse, to come between a father and his good intentions for his son?"

"You are two of a kind!" Nicholas shot back.

"Now. Now. Isn't that what they deem 'the pot calling the kettle black'?" LaCroix laughed.

Dan shifted in his hiding place. There was intrigue within intrigue here. This LaCroix had to be speaking of Lord Dunsmore, Mingo's English father. It seemed he meant Mingo harm and that part of Nicholas' reason for coming to Boonesborough _had_ been to protect him. And what was this about a letter? Cincinnatus had said something was bothering Mingo, something that made him take to drink like he had the last time his father had come around.

What was Lord Dunsmore up to now?

"I will never go back to you!" Nicholas declared. "I _will_ find my cure and laugh when I stand in the sun, free at last."

Faster than Dan could see LaCroix was on the other man and had Nicholas by the throat.

"You will never be free. A boy can _never_ be free of his father!"

"That ain't exactly true," Dan said rising and walking toward the pair. He was looking down Ticklicker's sight at LaCroix. "He can be – if the father is willing to let him become a man. Now, I'd advise you let Nicholas go."

LaCroix looked at him with a mixture of astonishment and amusement. "Oh dear! I am _so_ frightened," he said, cocking one white eyebrow. "And who is your savior, Nicholas? Another friend?"

"Leave him alone, I beg you," Nicholas' voice was choked. "LaCroix, please…."

The white-haired man sneered. "Then, I would advise _you_ to do the same."

"I'm waitin'," Dan warned, pulling back on the trigger.

LaCroix looked at him. "Well, we mustn't have that – " he remarked. Then, without warning, he effortlessly lifted Nicholas from the ground and threw him straight as an arrow toward him.

Before Dan knew it he was on the ground and Ticklicker had fired.

Directly into Nicholas Knightsford's body.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Nicholas stood staring down at Daniel Boone's unconscious form. As he flew from LaCroix's hands toward the startled frontiersman, he had deliberately rammed into the man harder than necessary, driving Boone's head against a stone lying on the ground and knocking him senseless. Then he had taken Daniel's rifle and reloaded it and shot through his own dark gray cloak. Looking at the rent fabric now, Nicholas knew it was a lame excuse, but it would have to do.

How else could he explain taking a rifle ball in the stomach at two feet and surviving? In Daniel Boone's naïve world creatures such as he simply did not exist.

Nor did ghosts or Raven Mockers.

He had been such a man once, many long centuries ago. Artless. Ingenuous. Pure and noble, as this one was. With high ideals and lofty ideas. But he had a character flaw that Daniel Boone did not seem to share.

The need for power and personal glory.

Nicholas knelt beside the other man and reached out to take his shoulder and rouse him. Then he stopped. What would he say? How would he explain the episode with LaCroix – not his vampire master, but the British General, Boone's sworn enemy?

There was little hope of mesmerizing the lanky frontiersman completely, and though simple in some ways, Daniel Boone was _no_ simpleton.

Nicholas rocked back on his heels. He stood and looked around for something to cover the tall man with. Finding a blanket, he tucked it around him and then rose and added another log to the fire he had kindled, assuring that its life-saving warmth would continue until the other man roused. Daniel Boone would not be happy with this new desertion, he knew. But the alternative was telling him the truth. Nicholas couldn't do that, not for his own safety –

Or for Daniel Boone's.

Cara-Mingo was another matter. Somehow it seemed his own unnatural nature had affected his old friend. Mingo's behavior was aberrant. The fact that he had left the Cherokee village without any protection for his feet and precious little for his fragile human form would have told him that if nothing else. But then, of course, there _was_ something else. During their travels Daniel had elaborated on what had occurred with the Henry Pitcairn, the Shawnee, and the Place of 1000 Spirits, and though he had pretended to scoff – denying such a thing as possession in order to connect with the frontiersman – from all appearances Mingo _was_ possessed by the discontent and disembodied spirit of the British lieutenant.

Nicholas stepped away from Daniel Boone's supine form and faced in the direction of Chota. He closed his eyes and returned to the moment when he had walked into the cave. What _had_ he sensed? Was it Henry Pitcairn's haunting presence, or had it been instead the Cherokee Raven Mocker, there to claim Pitcairn's soul? And, as the shaman Leather-heart suggested, had his own supernatural presence somehow acted as a bridge – allowing Pitcairn to escape? Had he unwittingly aided Henry Pitcairn in possessing his friend?

Would the curse of what he was _never_ end?

Shouldering the pack he had brought with him from the Cherokee village, filled with human necessities – medicines and other things Mingo would need if he found him – Nicholas walked away from the camp, following his old friend's trail. The presence of the British boot-print troubled him. LaCroix had indicated he was hunting Mingo. Did the boot-print beside Mingo's own mean his ancient master _already_ knew where his old friend was?

Nicholas glanced back at Daniel Boone's form, making certain the frontiersman had not roused. Then he turned his face to the sky and, with effortlessly grace, took to the air.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Janette DuCharme stood at the cabin window staring out into the white night. The snow had begun to fall again and in spite of her immortal – and nearly impervious nature – she shivered. Following Nichola here had been yet another mistake in a long line of mistakes linked to the man who was both brother and lover to her, as well as a friend. She had been worried for him, troubled by his forsaking the safer cities for this under-populated wilderness. Troubled that his unending quest for mortality would lead him into danger, if not from the mortals he cherished – who would destroy him if they found out what he was – then from their master LaCroix

LaCroix who would never let him go.

As she stood there, ruminating on her past lives and choices, the wind outside the cabin rose in strength. It rattled the window frames and whistled through the chinks in the walls. Janette turned away and looked toward the fire and the prone figure lying near it. She had moved the bed closer as the afternoon progressed and the wind returned, bringing with it a bone-chilling cold fatal to mortals even in the best of health.

And the man in the bed was _not_ in the best of health.

Crossing the room, Janette sat on the bed and reached out to touch Mingo's forehead. He moaned softly as she did and turned his face away. His skin was flushed – hot, not with the fire's warmth, but from a fire within. Since his outburst and collapse he had become fevered. He had only awakened once and when she tried to talk to him, the words he spoke made no sense. He called her 'Jenny' and uttered some nonsense about there being whiskey in a jar.

Janette sat looking at Mingo, admiring his handsome beauty which was enhanced, for her, in a perverse way by the fever. Reaching out, she coiled a lock of raven-black hair about one pallid finger. Closing her eyes she thought back to that night at Stirlingshire Manor. There had been a pantomime followed by dancing. After Lord Dunsmore and his lady-wife retired to their chambers, the actors had begun an impromptu concert. At it Kerr – or Mingo as he was now called – had rather improperly accepted an invitation to join them. Janette recalled Nicholas slipping his arm out of hers. He replaced the man at the harpsichord and began to play as Kerr began to sing…

With the voice of the angels.

She remembered them. Angels, that was. She had heard them when she was a mortal girl, before she lost her home and family, before she had been orphaned on the streets and learned to sell herself to survive –

Before LaCroix.

It had been a long time since she had heard or seen an angel. She was looking at one now. An innocent. An honest man.

One she was about to help destroy.

An abrupt knock at the cabin door made her jump. Janette spun, a frown marring the perfection of her eternally preserved face.

Who was this?

Rising, she crossed the cabin and went to the door and quickly opened it, disregarding the cold blast that struck her slender form and any thought of unexpected danger. A white-haired figure stood there, dressed in a British General's uniform, his ancient hand poised to strike the wood again.

"Surprise!" Lucien LaCroix laughed.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel Boone awoke stiff and sore and more than slightly miffed. He rose to his feet and stared at the ebbing fire and the empty camp. Then, with a frown on his face, he retraced his steps back to the place where Nicholas Knightsford's hurtling body had knocked him to the ground. Kneeling, he checked the snowy blanket that was the Kentucky's forest floor for blood.

The frown deepened when he didn't find any. Dan rocked back on his heels and pushed the coonskin cap off his forehead. He thought about it a minute and then rose again and, returning to the camp, looked for the most recent tracks left by Nicholas's expensive townie shoes. Snow had begun to fall again in earnest. By the time he located them, the prints were already half-buried. Still, he was a fine tracker and was able to follow them to the edge of the camp where Nicholas had paused and then beyond that toward the trees lining the horizon.

Until they disappeared without a trace – as if the man had taken a flying leap and sprung into the air like a bird.

Standing in the falling snow Dan lifted his face to the Heavens where he knew his God lived. He thought about the things in the Bible he had trouble with – demons, spirits talking, dead men walking…. Becky chided him, reminding him that he had to take every single word of the Good Book literally. _Had_ to believe it all. And how true faith was believing in things that a man couldn't see, couldn't put his hand on, _couldn't_ know….

"I believe, Lord," Dan whispered under his breath, paraphrasing one of his favorite passages from the New Testament. "Now help my unbelief."

Walking slowly, feeling old and very cold, Dan returned to the camp and began to break it down. Staying put was foolish. Nicholas had left him behind for some reason – whether good or bad he couldn't know. The wind and weather had erased most all traces of the path he had taken anyway. He couldn't go forward.

So he would go back.

Back to the cave where it had all begun. If there were answers to be found, Daniel Boone had a suspicion they would be there.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"So, my dear, aren't you going to invite me into your most _charming_ abode?" The white-haired vampire lifted one eyebrow as he glanced at the figure before the fire. His upper lip followed suit in a sneer. "And introduce me to the mister?"

"Very funny, LaCroix. What do you mean knocking?"

"But it would have been, oh, so rude simply to enter." He walked at a quick pace across the room and halted by the bed where Mingo lay. Then he looked back at her. The sneer slipped into a lascivious smile. "I remember how much you _wanted_ this one. Who knows what I might have…intruded on."

The sharp swish of her skirts spoke for her as she scowled at him. Coming to his side, she added, "You gave instructions that he was off-limits, did you not?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, I quite forgot." LaCroix snorted. "I do so like to give my children little lessons in discipline."

"I have had more than enough of that!" she spat. "Cow's blood, really, LaCroix. How long do you think I can drink that swill?"

"As long as is necessary," he answered, his tone grown suddenly sober. "Too many corpses would bring too many questions, my dear."

"What of your little army?" she snapped. "The last time I saw your entourage there were only ten. Did you not start out with a _dozen_ soldiers?"

"Such handsome, strapping lads. The British Army should be proud. But the rigors of frontier service, my dear, think about it! Men fall off cliffs; they get lost in the snow…their bones unclaimed until the following spring." He paused and then whispered close to her ear. "I've drained them as slowly as I can. It may be a _long_ winter…."

She glanced at the door beyond which she knew the soldiers waited. "Can you not get by with nine?"

LaCroix laughed again, a genuine heartfelt sound – for a devil.

"We shall see, my dear. We shall see." He caught her chin between his fingers and pinched hard. "We wouldn't want you wasting away, now would we?" Releasing her, he looked again at the pathetic figure on the bed. "I see you did as you were told."

She nodded. "He was half-crazed when I found him, and more than half-frozen. No shoes! He is lucky to still have his toes."

"I'm sure you found a way to…warm him up."

At her indignant snort, LaCroix crossed to the fire and stared at the flames dancing above the embers. "Children. You give them your life's blood. You nurture and protect them. You do _everything_ for them. One is grateful. Another….well… Who can say why or what makes the difference. Take this one." He turned toward Mingo. "His father gave him everything. A place in society. Wealth. Nearly unlimited power!" LaCroix's fingers formed a fist. "And what did he give his father in return? Pain. Suffering. Loss." Her master returned to the side of the bed before he met her eyes. "It is time for remorse and restitution."

"You will take him back? To England?"

He shrugged. "What else can a friend – another father do?"

"And what is in it for you?"

"Janette! You pain me." LaCroix placed his hand on his chest. "In it for _me_? Why, nothing but the satisfaction of returning the prodigal to the arms of his loving father."

"Who will then owe _you_."

Those pallid lips – thin, cruel, cunning – turned up with an evil grin. "But of course! What else are friends for?"

"And how will you get him there? In chains?" Janette understood captivity. She knew powerlessness, and the loss of hope. She did not wish that for the man she remembered – the handsome songbird, the earl's son, Kerr. "He will die on the journey over."

LaCroix drew a breath. "Oh, dear!" he remarked as though truly surprised. "I hadn't thought of that. We wouldn't want a thing of such beauty to pass away, now would we?"

Janette stiffened. Did he mean what she _thought_ he did? "You would…bring him across?"

"It's a thought." He grinned wickedly. "Nicholas keeps running away. You could have this one instead."

"But what of Lord Dunsmore?"

"A tragic end on the high seas. I found the young fool and brought him home – it is not my fault that it was in a box."

Janette shuddered. "You are…having the joke with me?" she asked hopefully.

He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. "Plan B," he said tapping once. "Now, about plan A. I have it from good authority that our dear old friend Kerr has been acting a bit…strange of late. Is that right?"

Janette took a step back. "Oui. How did you know?"

"Information from the man in the tavern. And a straggler along the road – who by the way was _quite_ delicious." He grinned evilly. "Oh, and Nicholas, of course."

"You have seen him?" she asked hopefully.

"Briefly. He should be here soon. I imagine by now he has lost that bumpkin Boone and figured out that I am two steps ahead of him, as always. Bright boy, that Nicholas. Now, as I was saying…."

As he waited, she realized he meant for her to speak. "Oui, Mingo is acting strangely. Not like himself, but like another. His voice. The way he walked. All changed. As if…"

"Yes? "LaCroix asked.

"As if he has become the man whose clothes he wears. Henri…"

"Henry Pitcairn."

She frowned. "You know him?"

" _Knew,_ my dear. And no, not I. One of the men in my larder… er… entourage served with him. But I think I should liked to have known him. Pitcairn was my kind of soldier. Ruthless. Brutal. But fair."

"How many did he slaughter?" she asked with disgust.

"Two hundred mortal souls at one stroke!"

Janette glanced toward the window, remembering the shadow figures that had haunted the lawn – and the creature she thought she had seen within the cabin. A creature she had _deliberately_ not mentioned to LaCroix. "Indians?" she asked.

"Why, yes, my dear. How did you know?"

She crossed to the window and looked out. The spirit figures were no longer there. Had she imagined them? And perhaps the other creature as well? "Mingo must have said something about it," she answered in an off-hand manner.

"So dear old Pitcairn is haunting your handsome songbird, eh? That's the sign of a weak mind, Janette."

She scowled. "Or an innocent soul."

LaCroix's sneer was rapacious. "All the better." He turned sharply toward Mingo and raised his voice as he spoke. "Lieutenant Pitcairn! Stand in the presence of a superior!"

Mingo's eyelids fluttered, the black lashes dancing against his pallid skin.

"Pitcairn, that is an order! You will stand. Now!"

Janette watched as Mingo's hand twitched and his shaking fingers gripped the side of the bed. Then, slowly, haltingly, he began to rise. She took a step toward him, but a look from LaCroix stopped her cold. Backing away, she halted by a chair and gripped its back as she watched the ailing man gain his feet.

"Very good, Lieutenant. _Very_ good. Now step away from the bed." LaCroix circled him, inspecting him. "You are out of uniform, Lieutenant!"

"I'm sorry, sir," Mingo answered, his voice a bare whisper. "I must have lost it…somewhere…."

"Well, no harm done. We can rectify that soon enough." LaCroix turned to her and wagged a finger. "Janette, my men are outside. Go strip one of them – and mind you, no taking advantage while you do!"

She wrinkled her nose at him and did as she was told. Returning a few minutes later Janette handed her master a crimson coat, a heavy cloak, a pair of clocked stockings and black boots.

"Here, Lieutenant," LaCroix said. "Put these on. We have quite a journey ahead of us."

Janette took the cloak while he handed Mingo the crimson coat. And then when he sat, she helped him put on the stockings and boots. Mingo's feet were still angry, the toes discolored. He had to feel pain when the stiff leather contacted them, but he showed nothing.

It was as if he was not really there.

"What will you do with him?" she asked softly as she helped him stand and placed the cloak about his shoulders.

"Take him back to that oh-so-quaint tavern and have the tavern-keeper look after him until he is well enough to travel. A day or two, I imagine. And then I shall deliver him to his father."

"But what will his father be getting?" she countered. "A son? Or a _madman_?"

He shrugged. "What does it matter? A father loves his boy…no matter what." Placing his hand on Mingo's shoulder, LaCroix commanded him gently, "And now, Lieutenant, you will follow me."

Janette watched them head for the door. She knew that once they were outside, LaCroix would take off into the air. The man she had known as Kerr Murray would not survive another long night traveling through the hateful white stuff that lay outside. When they got to the door, her master paused and favored her with a wide smile.

"Oh, and say 'hello' to Nicholas for me when he arrives. Tell him Papa's waiting."

There were few things that could still give Janette DuCharme shivers.

LaCroix's smile of victory was one.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Rebecca Boone straightened up from where she had been leaning over the tavern

hearth, stoking the fire. She used an ash-stained hand to shove her coppery bangs back from her forehead and sighed.

She only wished it were her own.

After what had happened with General LaCroix, Yad and Cincinnatus had insisted she and the children come to the fort. She hadn't argued too much. Her encounter with the Englishman had deeply disturbed her. The man was evil.

 _Pure_ evil.

In the end she decided it was a good thing she had come anyway. Cincinnatus had been pale and trembling and barely on his feet when he had come to the cabin, and shortly after their return, had fallen ill. Now he lay in his bed upstairs fighting a mild fever – nothing life-threatening, but enough to put him off his feet and leave no one to run the tavern. When the burden of watching over it fell on her, Becky had made the decision to send Jemima and Israel to stay with friends. She had been afraid they might catch it.

No, that wasn't true. She was just afraid.

Crossing the room, she stepped behind the counter and began straightening the pewter mugs that lined its battered surface for the tenth time, looking for something to keep her hands occupied. As she rearranged them – sorting them by size – she heard voices outside the door. Becky froze, staring at the wooden barricade and then – for a reason she couldn't put her finger on – ducked down behind the counter.

She felt the wintry blast of the door opening even there. Frigid air ran across the floor and swept over her, lifting the hair on her head as well as her apron strings. She heard the tramp of heavy boots and several loud voices speaking with a familiar and unwelcome accent.

The Redcoats had returned! Becky shuddered, wondering if that _awful_ man was with them.

"Put him over there," a gruff voice ordered. "By the fire." More footsteps sounded. Martial. Clipped. And then a hand came down so hard on the counter above her that she jumped. "Barkeep! Barkeep! Wake up! You have custom."

Becky frowned. They might wake Cincinnatus, and the last thing the older man needed to do was rise out of his sick bed.

"Barkeep! We have need of a room!"

"There doesn't seem to be anyone here," another voice, younger remarked. "Just choose one and put him in it. The General will be here soon. He'll have our hides if his orders are not carried out."

"Have our hides _and_ tan them!" the other snorted. Becky heard the man move off and then the sound of feet taking the stairs two at a time. "Right! I'll find a bed."

The room she was in went silent with the exception of the sound of someone being dragged across the floor. As curiosity overcame her fear, Becky decided to take a look. She slid to the side of the counter and peered cautiously around the end. There were two Redcoats near the fire. One was short and blond. He was standing, leaning over the other one who was slumped in a chair. The second man was tall, with hair as black as ink. Becky frowned. The man in the chair looked familiar. Something about the way he held himself –

Dear Lord! It was _Mingo_.

Becky threw her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp of surprise. Then she shifted back as the other soldier returned, descending the stair. "There's an old man asleep in the back room," he said "Look's to be sick."

"Anything catching?" his companion asked.

"God only knows!" the first answered, halting just beyond the counter. "The other rooms are all empty, though there must be a woman here somewhere. At least there's a female's things in the room close by the old man's."

"I wonder who she is. Not a wife if there're separate rooms."

"An indentured servant then? Maybe the one who stoked the fire just before we arrived? If so, she'll likely be back."

"Aye. Give us a hand then, eh, Barnes? He's a right longshanks, he is."

Becky's frown deepened as she listened to the men carry Mingo up the stair. It didn't surprise her that he was ill – after all he had run out into the storm inebriated. But what in the world had happened after that? How did Mingo end up in the company of Redcoats – and dressed as one of them?

And _where_ was Dan?

A moment later she heard both men descend the stair. One headed for the tavern door, while the other approached the counter where she was hiding. The soldier leaned over – right above her head – and grabbed a bottle of rum. She heard him uncork it.

"Barnes, what do you think you're doing?" the man near the door called.

"What's it hurt, Jimmy?" Barnes answered. "I'm just warming my innards."

"General LaCroix will warm more than your innards if he catches you slacking," Jimmy replied.

"I ain't slacking. That one upstairs is all but dead. What do you think? He's going to rise from that bed like Lazarus and walk out of here?"

"It's your head, Barnes. Just see that he don't."

"Right."

The door opened, admitting another blast of frozen air and then closed with a loud thud. Barnes took another swig and then moved away, heading for the hearth and the blazing fire. She heard him turn the chair Mingo had occupied around. Shifting forward, Becky peered around the end of the counter again and saw that he slouched in it, facing the fire.

Now was her chance.

Drawing a deep breath and holding it as she moved, Becky slipped out from behind the counter and crawled toward the stairs. This would be the test. She had stayed here so many times with the children that she knew Cincinnatus' staircase like the back of her hand. She knew every step that creaked and each board that popped – but she was scared and nervous, and shaky on her feet.

"Please God," she whispered. "Don't let me make a mistake, and if I do – deafen Barnes' ears."

When she reached the staircase she stood upright and placed her foot on the bottom step, a little to the right of its center. She moved up three steps in the same way and then switched to the left side for the next two. Then she hesitated. Right or left? _Which_ was it? Making a choice, she put her foot down and froze when there was a small 'crack'. Holding her breath, she glanced at the soldier where he sat before the fire. Barnes had his chin on his chest and was snoring.

Letting the breath out Becky murmured a quiet 'thanks', and then mounted the remaining steps and headed for the room where Mingo lay.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He loved her – and he hated her. And right now, Nicholas wanted to take Janette and shake her until her perfect teeth rattled in her exquisite head.

"Janette! What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I know where _my_ loyalties lie," she snapped as one dark eyebrow arched. "That I know who loves me and cares for me. Who has granted me an eternity of beauty and life."

"You call this 'life'?" He gripped her hand and the glass she held, the one into which Janette had just emptied the remainder of a wine bottle filled with calf's blood. "LaCroix has granted us both a 'life' of eternal damnation!"

"And is it so terrible to be 'damned', mon amour?" She came close to him, brushing his face with her fingertips. "We have lived many lives, seen more and _been_ more than any mortal can be in one lifetime."

He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. "And I would trade it all to be one of them again."

"My poor tormented Nichola. When will you ever learn that you cannot win? That every attempt you make to become mortal again only infuriates and invigorates LaCroix? You see how long it took him to find out about your foolish scheme to seek out a Cherokee Shaman – "

"And who told him about my 'foolish scheme'?" he demanded, twisting her wrist. "His dutiful 'daughter'? Why do you continue to damn me, Janette? I thought…. I thought we were – "

She pressed the fingers of her other hand to his lips. "We _were_. That is why. And we three _are_ a family – even if you do not care to admit it."

"What has LaCroix done with Mingo? Tell me!"

Her upper lip twitched. "Taken him back to the tavern."

"Why?"

"To give him time to heal."

"And then he means to return him to London? To use him to bargain with Lord Dunsmore for power and influence. For what, Janette? For what?"

She shrugged. "You know LaCroix. Whatever little mischief he can stir up. This country stands on the brink of war. Do you not think he would want a part of that? Battles bring blood, Nichola. Blood that is not missed."

He nodded. "And Lord Dunsmore has control over the greatest portion of this country. The Virginia Territory. With him beholden to LaCroix…."

"There is no end to the… _mischief_ he can make."

"But to ruin a man's life. Janette, how can you be a party to this? Kerr was your friend as well as mine."

Her pale jaw tightened. "He rejected me."

"And so you would damn him to prison? Because he insulted your vanity? It would be the same as condemning him to death."

"Perhaps." Her blue eyes were lidded. Suddenly they flicked to his. "Though there _might_ be another way…."

Nicholas stared at her and then he shook his head. "No. No! I will not allow it."

"And how could you stop LaCroix if that is what he truly chose to do? Think of it, Nichola. One of _us_ among the Peerage. And one so handsome and intelligent, so able. What could he not accomplish among his father's people – _and_ his mother's?"

"Dear God," he breathed, truly horrified.

"God has very little to do with us, Nichola. You should have learned that long ago. God has turned his back on our kind."

"He has not turned his back on Mingo. And He never will if I have anything to say about it. LaCroix shall not have him!"

"And how will you stop him?" she challenged. "You have tried before and you have _always_ lost."

He snorted. "Thank you for your vote of confidence, Janette. It is appreciated. Now, get out of my way."

He pushed past her and headed for the door. As he reached it, she called out, "Do you think that LaCroix will not destroy you if you push him too far?"

Nicholas Knightsford turned back.

"Well, then," he answered with a grin, "I will have _finally_ won, won't ?I"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Becky looked in on Cincinnatus to make certain the soldiers had not done anything to harm him. When it seemed he was all right – and sleeping more peacefully than before – she moved on to the room down the passageway where they had placed Mingo. Entering, she closed the door behind her, hopeful the tired and half-frozen soldier below would not remember whether or not he had left it open. Moving to the bed, she sat by her friend's side and looked at him.

Mingo was paler than she had ever seen him before. He seemed to have lost weight in just the short time he had been absent. The soldiers had removed the heavy crimson coat and boots and dumped him in the bed. He was dressed in a thin linen shirt and buff colored breeches with clocked stockings. Becky rose and went to the linen press and found a blanket. Returning to the bed, she pulled it up to his chin and tucked it in around him to keep him warm. As she did, he moaned and shifted.

"Mingo?" she whispered. "Mingo, can you hear me? You must keep quiet."

He made no sound, but his eyes moved beneath their lids.

She sat again and gripped his hand. "Mingo?"

His lips were dry. They parted with effort. His voice, when he spoke, was a pale imitation of its normal deep tones. His eyes opened, but she was not sure what it was they saw. "Rebecca?" he asked.

"Yes. It's me. You're in the tavern, Mingo." Becky frowned, thinking of it. "British soldiers brought you in. Mingo, what's happening? Where is Dan?"

His face grew taut with pain. He shook his head as if unable to contend with her barrage of questions. "Rebecca, help me…."

"I'm sorry. I will. We have to get you out of here." She remembered how the soldiers had labored to bring him into the tavern. "Can you walk?"

"No. Not that… You have to _help_ me." His deep brown eyes grew wild as his fingers gripped hers. "Rebecca, you must make him go away!"

"The soldier?" she asked, at a loss.

"No. _Him_." He lifted his head and stared at the shadows as if there was someone there watching. "Henry Pitcairn."

Becky shook her head. "Mingo, Henry Pitcairn is long gone. He left the fort, don't you remember? What do you – "

"No. Not gone. He's here." He frowned with pain as he lifted his hand and placed it on his chest. " _Here_ with me."  
"With you?" Becky's confusion was quickly turning to fear. There was something terribly wrong with her friend. "Mingo, what do you mean?"

"Something happened, Rebecca," he said quite clearly, sounding almost like himself. "Pitcairn, he hanged himself…in the Place of 1000 Spirits."

"Oh, Mingo, no!" She had pitied the man – so lost, so tormented by what he had done. "You found him?"

"As he found _me!_ " Mingo's hand gripped hers hard as he rose up in the bed and turned to look at her. "You have to help me, Rebecca! Somehow, Pitcairn has taken possession of me. I hear him, in my head. I see him, standing in the snow, watching. I see them all – all the ones he killed, the spirits of Wi-sha-sho. They think I am him. That I have escaped their justice. They want to _destroy_ me!'

As he spoke Mingo's voice had risen in pitch, so much so that she feared Barnes would hear it and wake and come to see what was the matter. Becky leaned forward and placed a hand over his mouth. "Mingo, shh! He will hear! The soldier, he'll come. Mingo, hush!" The hand trembled. She truly feared for her friend's sanity. "Mingo, _please!"_

His dark eyes were wide with wonder and fear. Mingo shuddered and then fell back against the pillows, breathing hard. "Rebecca…." His hand stretched out toward her. "James…two…nineteen." His fingers brushed hers and then went slack as Mingo slid back into unconsciousness.

James 2:19. Becky stifled a sob as tears streaked down her cheeks. She had been about to explain that he could not be possessed by Henry Pitcairn as he feared – that there _was_ no such thing as possession. But her 'heathen' friend had shamed her with his words. Becky rose shakily to her feet and checked the passageway outside the room. It was clear. Thankfully Barnes must be a sound sleeper and General LaCroix had not returned. She moved down the corridor and into her own room, and then returned at all speed with a black book clutched tightly in her hands. Sitting beside Mingo, she opened the Holy Scriptures to the Book of James, the second chapter, verse nineteen, and read:

'Thou believest that God is one, thou doest well. The demons also believe, and shudder."

Chastised, Becky closed the Bible and fell on her knees beside the bed and did the only thing she could.

She prayed.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sometime later she was roused by the sound of raised voices. Becky shook herself and rose wearily to her feet. She was exhausted, but was still surprised that she had fallen asleep – though fervent prayer did at times lull her into a state that was not of this world. She checked Mingo and pulled the coverlet up beneath his chin. He was sleeping. His dark head was on the pillow and he looked for all the world as small and as helpless as Israel. Becky leaned over and planted a kiss on his forehead and then went to the door and opened it a crack.

Yes, there were definitely people below – arguing. She could make out two men's voices and, occasionally, what sounded like a woman's exclamation of concern – as if she sought to keep their disagreement civilized.

Stealing out of the room, Becky crept to the top of the stair and peered down it. What she saw took her breath. The handsome blond man who had left the cabin in the company of her missing husband – Nicholas Knightsford – was there, and that woman, Jeanne. Barnes, the British soldier, lay on the floor, his neck twisted at an odd angle and blood pooling beneath him. Leaning over him, his mouth bloodied and his eyes blazing like Hellfire –

Was General Lucien LaCroix.

Becky swallowed her startled gasp and retreated into the shadows as Nicholas, whose back was to her, demanded of the other man, "Have you lost all sense of reason? Anyone could walk in here, at any minute!"

"Yes, they could." LaCroix rose to his feet. He ran a finger along his lips which were painted red with the soldier's blood. "And we would have to kill them all? Wouldn't we?" When Nicholas remained silent, the general sneered triumphantly, " _Check_ , Nicholas."

"LaCroix is right, Nichola. Let us be gone."

"No! I will not allow him to destroy Mingo. He is a good man. He is needed here. His father cares nothing for him. Mingo is only another pawn to be used in Lord Dunsmore's game of chess!"

"Well, what else do you think we have children for, Nicholas?" the general scoffed. "To love and to be loved by? If so, then _you_ are a miserable failure as a son."

"From you, LaCroix, that is a compliment!"

"You see, Janette?" the white-haired man said, shaking his head. "What I have to put up with? More and more, I think perhaps _another_ adopted son would show me the proper respect."

"Mingo would hate you as _I_ hate you," Nicholas snarled.

"Well, then, you would have a brother." LaCroix smiled viciously. "Don't ever say I didn't get you anything for Christmas."

"You will have to destroy me to get to him," Nicholas declared.

And then something happened that Becky could not explain. General LaCroix was evil, she knew that, but in the next moment he became evil incarnate. His eyes turned an unholy green and he snarled like a beast, showing long pointed teeth. And then he rose up and flew at Nicholas.

 _Flew!_

Becky fell back, trembling. Her hand gripped the cross around her neck. Unable to resist, she held onto it as she shifted forward again and saw Nicholas roll over just in time to escape LaCroix's deadly embrace. Then he returned to his feet with an almost supernatural speed. Nicholas' eyes were now the same violent green. And when he spoke, his voice had changed. It was the voice of an animal forming words.

"You shall not harm him. You shall not harm _any_ of them."

"Ah! So you hear it too?" LaCroix's voice grew suddenly calm. Even. Chilling. "A heart beating. Life pulsing through a body of flesh. The rapid breath. The scent of sweat…" He pivoted suddenly and looked directly at Becky where she stood concealed in the shadows. "A lady ripe for the picking!"

"LaCroix, _no_. You will leave her alone!" Nicholas warned.

The white-haired man pivoted back even as Janette remarked matter-of-factly, "She is a resistor. A danger to us all, Nichola."

"You have said it yourself, LaCroix. We cannot kill indiscriminately," Nicholas countered. Then he turned his ghoulish eyes on the stair – as if he could see her where she cowered. "Mrs. Boone would be missed."

"Well, then, it seems we have a dilemma. Don't we?" General LaCroix approached Nicholas. When he spoke, his voice was low – so low it was hard for her to catch the words. "And you have a choice to make. Who will it be? The Indian?" LaCroix swung back, pointing at her. "Or the lady!" He laughed, a short harsh bark of triumph, and then held his hand out for Janette to take. "Come, my dear. I have decided to be gracious." When the pair reached the door, LaCroix looked at Nicholas and said, "You have one day. Tomorrow at this time I will find you – no matter where you are – and demand your answer. And remember always, Nicholas….

" _Father_ knows best."

And with that, the evil creature was gone.

Nicholas Knightsford stood alone in the center of the tavern, close by the body of the ravaged soldier. He hung his head for several heartbeats. When he lifted it and looked at her, she saw that his eyes had returned to their normal blue.

"Mrs. Boone. Rebecca," he said, his voice hushed. "Please, come down. I will not harm you."

Trembling so she could hardly walk, Becky managed to make it to the top of the staircase before she stopped. Once there she clung to the rail. "Who…. _What_ are you?" she asked.

He sighed. "Something that I do not want to be. Again, I assure you, you have nothing to fear…from me."

She took a few steps. "That man…."

"LaCroix? It will be to my eternal shame that I led him to your door. I thought of no one but myself, and now I have brought this on you – and on my old friend." Nicholas looked at the soldier laying on the floor. He stared at his own hands a moment – as if there were blood on them – and then looked up at her. "Did you see?"

Becky was at the bottom of the staircases now. "Yes. But _what_ I saw, it can't be…."

"Just as a man _cannot_ be possessed? As a spirit cannot rise to haunt the place where its body lays? As there are no such things as witches or Raven Mockers? Or…vampires." Nicholas held his hand out, pleading for her understanding. "I am sorry you saw what you did. You have lost some of your innocence because of me."

Her eyes went to the soldier. "Do _you_ kill?"

He shook his head. "Not any more. LaCroix, however, has no such scruples."

"He means to kill me?" she asked.

Nicholas met her eyes. "Unless I allow him to take Mingo."

"Mingo? Why Mingo?"

The man before her shrugged. "He is a friend of mine, and so has become a pawn in the eternal game of punishing me which LaCroix delights in. That is all any of you are – pawns. Things to be used or discarded as suits his whim!"

Nicholas Knightsford looked for all the world like any ordinary man. But Becky could not deny the truth her eyes had shown her. She crossed to his side, meaning to question him further, but at her approach he turned away and averted his eyes.

"Nicholas," she asked, "what is it?"

"Your cross," he answered. "I cannot bear to look upon it without pain."

Her hand went to the precious relic. "Why is that?"

"It is a symbol of the true light, and our kind cannot bear the light," he answered, his voice laced with remorse. "We are damned. For what we are – for what I have become, there can be no forgiveness."

Becky drew a deep breath. She felt the cross pulse beneath her fingers. Closing them over it so it no longer showed, she stepped closer to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. When Nicholas looked at her, she smiled sadly.

"There is _nothing_ that cannot be forgiven."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The time had come.

Nicholas Knightsford drew a steadying breath as he placed his pale fingers against the rough grain of the door and pushed in, and then preceded the light from the hall into the room. Mingo lay on the bed, his face turned toward the window and the white world outside. Nicholas could not tell if his old friend was awake or sleeping. Turning slightly, he pushed the door to and then gently called his name.

"CaraMingo. Are you awake?"

His answer was a moan, and a slight shift of the Cherokee's long lean body on the rough linen sheets.

Crossing to the window Nicholas lifted the curtain and stared out, noting – as was his habit – that only a few hours of darkness remained. All too soon he would have to hide again.

But this time, he would not hide alone.

Pivoting, he walked to the bed and sat in the chair beside it. Employing the power of his supernatural voice he said, clearly, " _My friend, you must wake_. We need to talk."

Mingo shifted again. His tongue darted between his teeth, wetting his lips, and then his near black eyes blinked. He turned his head and looked up at him. "Nicholas? How long have you been there?"

"Just a moment." Nicholas leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. As he watched his old friend painfully draw his body up into a seated position, his thoughts flew to the frightened woman downstairs. Rebecca Boone was remarkable. What he was – a creature of the night, the walking dead, a _vampire_ – was well beyond her comprehension, and yet she had not panicked. In fact, at the moment Daniel Boone's wife was preparing a kit for them to take along when they departed.

Which must be soon.

Mingo blinked again and frowned as his dark eyes darted about the room. When he looked back, surprise had awakened in his face. "Where am I?" he asked.

"The tavern in Boonesborough."

"How did I get here?"  
"You remember nothing of the journey?"

"No. I was somewhere…in a cabin." Mingo's frown deepened, and then erupted into astonishment. "With Jeanne DuCharme! Nicholas, did you know Jeanne was here?"

"Yes." He paused before adding. "As is Lucien LaCroix."

His old friend could not know what that meant. Mingo knew LaCroix only as his surrogate father, not as his master – or the monster he was.

"You all came together to the Colonies?" Mingo asked.

Unable to take root anywhere for long, Nicholas rose to his feet and began to pace, crossing the small room in several strides. "We traveled together, yes. Our destination was Williamsburg." He paused and turned back to look at his old friend. "You surprise me, my friend. You do not ask after your father, the governor general? Are you not curious? About his health…."

"I do not care."

Nicholas smiled wearily. In spite of his great fatigue and all he had been through, Mingo still had the energy to hate – well, perhaps not to hate, but to rebel.

He understood _that_ all too well.

"You had a letter recently, did you not?" Nicholas asked without preamble. "A disturbing letter?"

Mingo's expression grew wary. He nodded. Once.

"I sent it to you," Nicholas admitted.

"You! How?"

"Yes. I discovered its existence when I was still with LaCroix. He intercepted the courier who bore it. It…amused him to aid his old friend, Lord Dunsmore, in his quest to bring his errant son to heel. LaCroix means to have you, Mingo. And to turn you over to your father. In you," Nicholas paused, ashamed, "Lucien sees a chance to avenge himself on _me_."

His friend's fingers gripped the linen sheet, closing them in a fist. "My father has placed a bounty on my head, not LaCroix!"

"The bounty is a ruse. You know that. Your father does not want your head –

he wants _you._ He wants you at his side. He wants you to want what _he_ wants. To desire to be him."

Mingo's dark eyes were set in shadows. His usually golden skin had grown pallid. He was weak from ill use and far too many days exposure to extreme temperatures. His voice, once strong, was a whisper now – bare branches scraping stone. But his will was undaunted.

"That will _never_ happen!" he vowed.

Sitting once again, Nicholas held his friend's gaze. "No. It will not. Not if I can do anything about it. Do you trust me?" he asked, a slight tremble in his voice, almost as if he was afraid.

Mingo did not hesitate. "Yes. You were a good friend to me in England. I have no reason to believe you would be otherwise now."

The smile appeared again – chagrinned this time. "I wish that were true."

"What do you mean?"

"Friends are honest, are they not? _Completely_ honest with one another."

"Yes. Have you not been honest with me, Nicholas?"

His pale lips pursed as he shook his head. "No."

"Does this have to do with…." Mingo shuddered. His fingers tightened on the sheets. "…with Henry Pitcairn, and what is happening to me?"

"Indirectly." _Now_ they came to it. Nicholas wondered, when the moment arrived – could he tell him? "The old shaman, he warned you, did he not? He told you that I am not what I seem?"

In his friend's eyes he saw the first inkling of fear. "I did not believe him," Mingo answered.

He did not flinch, but continued to hold his friend's gaze. " _Believe_ him."

"I don't understand…."

Nicholas stood. He held out his hand. "Are you strong enough to rise?"

Mingo nodded. "Yes."

"Strong enough to go with me? And to see what I will show you?"

With effort, his old friend swung his long legs over the side of the bed. Mingo refused his hand as he rose, but was forced to take it when his knees buckled and he stumbled.

"What is it you mean to show me?" he asked, leaning into his strength.

Nicholas placed an arm about his friend's waist as they walked toward the door.

"Something you have never seen, my friend. And something you will pray to your God that you shall _never_ see again."

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Janette hesitated outside the cave opening. Employing all of her extraordinary senses, she sought its living occupant and found none.

And yet she knew the cave was inhabited.

With a scowl furrowing her otherwise pale and perfect brow, Janette entered the musty dust ridden space. She touched a spear thrust curiously into the stone floor as she passed it and then, lifting her sapphire skirts, stepped over a scattering of brittle bones. As she cleared the human remains a little smile of triumph lifted the corner of one ruby painted lip. She would never know death. Never know such decay. She would remain as she was –

Forever.

Janette released the smile in a laugh as she bent and picked up one of the bones to examine it. It was small and delicate. Most likely it belonged to a young girl barely into her maturity. As she fingered the ivory remnant of a life cut short years before its time, she noted the bone was curved. A rib, no doubt. Its outer surface was slashed as if with cats' claws.

Or a man's knife.

"Her name was _Waapa_. White. White as the snow which saw her birth. White as the enemy who brought about her untimely death."

Jeannette yelped and dropped the bone. She pivoted, but there was no one there. "Where are you?" she demanded. "Show yourself!"

"Beside her lies Dancing Dog, her son. He had not yet seen twenty moons."

Shadows flitted about the cave – the one called the Place of 1000 Spirits – and it grew dark and cold, as if the false night had chased away the dawning day outside. As Janette hugged her arms about her corseted waist, she reminded herself that this was what she had come here for – an encounter with the malevolent spirit that had appeared in the cabin where she had secreted Mingo. After LaCroix departed with the handsome man in tow, she had gone outside to search for prints. Finding none, she decided to get to the bottom of what was happening. In his delirium the man she had known as Kerr Murray had spoken of this place, of Henry Pitcairn, and of the spirit of evil whose intervention had somehow caused them to become one – a Cherokee Raven Mocker.

Janette was certain that was what she had seen.

"So many souls. So many years…."

"Why do you not show yourself! Are you afraid?" Janette snapped a challenge.

"Are _you?"_ a withered voice answered directly behind her.

Janette's skirts whispered on the rough stone as she turned. A shadow – the absence of light – was there, but it slipped away quickly becoming one with a darkened corridor cut into the hillside. Undaunted Janette followed, determined to unmask this human charlatan – whoever it was. The tunnel was black as pitch, but that meant nothing to her. With her supernatural senses she was able to see the walls, the floor, the ceiling strung with stalactites –

Everything but the one who had spoken.

Janette halted. "I will go no farther until you show yourself," she pouted, stamping her silk-slippered foot. "Face me, whoever you are!"

"Whoever I am. Whoever I was…." A breath rustled the hairs on the back of her delicate neck. "Whoever I will be…."

"You will be dead!" Janette growled, swinging and striking out, but catching only air. "You will _not_ toy with me!"

"As you have toyed with so many others?" The shadow crouched in the center of the chamber she had entered, just below a dangling rope. "I know what you are…."

"What am I then?" Janette asked, her tone was defiant.

"A dead thing."

With that the shadow unfolded; a cold malfeasance manifested in black. Janette shuddered, unexpectedly unnerved, and took a step back. Fingers bent as claws appeared beneath sleeves hung slack as raven's wings. A hood cloaked its head, but within the hood was the memory of a face – and within that memory, a pair of obsidian eyes that looked on her with hate. Noting her disgust, the Raven Mocker cackled like a crow in corn.

Janette trembled but stood her ground. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"No one," the creature answered.

"Why are you here?"

Again the laugh. "There is nowhere else."

"What do you want with Mingo?"

The Raven Mocker cackled low. "Nothing."

"Nothing? Liar! I saw you in the cabin. Why were you there if it was not for Mingo?"

The creature hobbled toward her. As it drew close Janette noted its exposed skin was reddened, and both pitted and scarred, as if it had been through a fire. "You ask Pitcairn," the Raven Mocker answered. "Ask Henry Pitcairn when you see him."

"I cannot see him," Janette snapped. "He is dead!"

The creature's ancient eyes were black as the pit of Hell and lit with unholy mirth. "So are you," it replied.

"It seemed so simple at first, so very, very simple," a man's voice remarked softly. Janette turned toward it with a frown. The sound came from back along the corridor. Scowling at the ancient creature which had retreated into the shadows, she gathered her skirts and returned to the main chamber of the cave. The man was still speaking, his tones hushed, his accent an educated English one. "…take them at night when they are unawares," he said. "Kill them all – men, women, children. The animals breed like rats! Leave any alive, and there will only be more and more…and more."

Janette had noticed a cairn of stones stacked near one of the cave walls when she passed through earlier. She stopped as she exited the corridor to stare at it. Above the gray stones a disembodied spirit hung. It was a man, lanky and raw-boned, dark-haired, with a scrub of a beard on his face. He was dressed as an English officer in a scarlet uniform.

Just above the stones his stockinged feet melted away into nothing.

"But how to do it? _How?_ We didn't know the lay of the land. We didn't know which lodges held supplies and which, the Shawnee animals." The man paused. He looked up and pinned her with his pale blue eyes. "We needed a guide. We needed – her!"

One bony arm was raised. He pointed toward the corridor behind her.

"The old Cherokee woman, she led us to the Shawnee for a price I promised to pay." The pale spirit sneered. "Well, everyone knows, promises are cheap. This was war! A good soldier employs every means he must to emerge from the battle victorious." His voice fell, growing dark in tone. "She knew too much. I couldn't let her live. Jenkins! Bind the witch. Burn her! Burn her, and leave her with the others!"

"Henri Pitcairn," Janette breathed. "Why are you here?"

The eyes he turned on her were anguished. "I don't know. I don't know why," he whispered. "I meant to end it all, but now it is unending. I cannot rest…."

He had grown insubstantial; his lean form starting to fade. Janette stepped closer. "Henri Pitcairn! Answer me! Who were those people outside the cabin? Why do they follow Mingo? What have they to do with him – or with you?"

"The spirits of Wi-sha-sho are awake again," he answered, his voice breaking on the wind that whistled through the cave even as he faded from view. "They too cannot rest."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo knew the moment he saw Rebecca that something was terribly wrong. Daniel's wife was a handsome woman, strong and resilient – a woman who had weathered hard, lean years, who had survived every weapon in the arsenal of the Kentucky wilderness – contagion, attack, drought and disaster –

And she was plainly terrified.

As he leaned on Nicholas Knightsford's arm and worked his way down Cincinnatus' stair, Rebecca dropped the kit she was busy packing and rushed to meet them. Mingo noticed that her eyes went to Nicholas first, and that she quickly looked away.

"Mingo! How are you?" she asked.

He managed a grin. Albeit a weak one. "I am fine, Rebecca."

"Is the pack ready?" Nicholas asked without preamble.

Rebecca jumped at his voice. "Yes. I was just fastening it."

"There is no time to waste. You remember what I told you?" he asked her.

Mingo watched her nod. Her hand went to the chain she wore around her neck. He noticed that her cross was not displayed as usual, but was hidden behind a modesty scarf. "Yes."

"You will be safe until nightfall. Then you must do as I told you. Fire is your only ally if he returns." Nicholas reached out and caught Rebecca's hand. "Dear lady, I would not have anything happen to you. Your kindness to me…knows no equal. You must believe me when I tell you that LaCroix is not easily stopped. He is ancient and evil. And that evil does no more than draw a breath and press on when confronted by the relic you wear. Do you understand?"

As Rebecca nodded Nicholas broke away from him and went to the counter to grab the kit she had prepared. "Rebecca?" Mingo asked her as he swayed and found his balance by leaning on a chair-back. "What is Nicholas talking about?"

Daniel's wife suppressed a shudder and then pulled the shawl she wore tightly about her shoulders. "Mingo," she said, "I believe Nicholas to be one of God's creatures. You must trust him." She stepped forward and placed her hand on his arm. She was trembling. "In spite of what you see."

Before he could answer her, Nicholas came to his side. "There is no time for this!" he declared. "See to your children's safety during the day, and that of the old man upstairs. Then barricade yourself in a holy place and wait for our return. If LaCroix comes first…." He let the sentence fade into nothing.

"God go with you," she answered, her voice a soft whisper of hope.

"It is more likely he will stay with you," he replied. Then Nicholas turned to him. "Well, my friend, it is time."

"Time?" Mingo asked, confused. "Time for what?"

Nicholas' boyish smile returned. "For the truth!"

Seconds later the pair stepped out of the tavern, reentering the white world outside. The wind had risen during the night and a strong fall of snow had begun. The white waves butted up against Cincinnatus' establishment were tinted rose like a young girl's cheeks.

The sun was rising. Another day had begun.

Mingo gazed out across the frozen landscape for a moment and then turned to his friend. "You promised me the truth," he said.

"And you shall have it!" Nicholas declared with a nod. Then, stepping behind him, he circled his friend's waist with his arms and pushed off and rose with him into the air.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Daniel Boone paused to wipe his forehead. It never ceased to amaze him that a man could face freezing to death and sweat at one and the same time. His lone trek through a world of endless white had been a hard one. The wilderness he loved should be a place of high hopes, of great expectations, not a place for backwards glances and regrets. And yet here he was, retracing his steps. Another six hours, maybe seven, would find him at the Place of 1000 Spirits.

And, hopefully, find his friend.

Of course, finding Mingo most likely meant he would find Nicholas Knightsford as well, and be forced to confront the puzzle that was the man.

Thinking back over the last year or so, since he had met Mingo, Dan realized his friendship with the Cherokee warrior had taken him places he was not always comfortable with. Before Mingo there had been no witches, magical animals, or Indian spirits haunting caves. Oh, to the settlers he was sure he appeared as unflappable as ever. But Mingo knew. And Becky. What he had seen had changed him. His faith was still strong, grounded in the land, in the rich green forests and bright blue lakes of the wilderness he loved, but he had been forced to admit there was more than just day and night. Black and white.

Now he knew there were shadows.

With a shake of his head, Dan reached up and adjusted his coonskin cap. His fingers lingered on the supple fur for just a moment longer than was necessary, and then dropped to touch, and then caress the polished wooden handle of his rifle. These things were real. They had substance. He could hold onto them.

He _needed_ to hold onto them.

Turning his face to the horizon, Dan watched the rising sun set fire to the ice and snow. A cold, chilling breeze slapped his wind chaffed cheeks as flakes began to fall once again. Back home Becky was standing by the window, watching the same snow, waiting for his return. His children were asleep, tucked safe and snug beneath their woolen coverlet. Yes, the shadows were real, but the bright white light dispelled them at the dawn of each new day.

This was his faith, his _reality_ –

And what he must cling to when facing the nightmare to come.

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"Mingo? You have not said a word since our arrival."

Nicholas paused as he turned his face from the rising sun to look at his friend. They were not in the Place of 1000 Spirits, not yet, but in another cave close by. So close, in fact, that he could feel the heartbeat of fear that emanated from the place. But before they entered that den of shadow, Nicholas needed to know just _who_ it was accompanied him there. Mingo, or the displaced spirit of Henry Pitcairn.

Perhaps, it was both.

Nicholas approached his friend. Mingo had said little on their journey and even less since they had arrived. He sat huddled in a corner of the cave, wrapped tightly, looking like a lost child.

"Mingo?" he tried again.

His friend's chin rested on his chest. Mingo lifted it and looked at him. What Nicholas saw in his eyes was not good. They were wide. Totally black. And terrified. They were not the eyes of his old friend, the son of an English peer educated at Oxford, nor yet were they those of Henry Pitcairn. They were instead the eyes of a little boy raised in the superstition filled world of the Cherokee.

"Who… _what_ are you?" Mingo asked.

Nicholas shrugged. "Does it surprise you, my friend, to find those ancient myths we studied as boys with such intensity suddenly sprung to life?"

Mingo's chest rose and fell several times as the _man_ fought to master the boy's unmastered fear. "But Nicholas – you _flew!"_

Nicholas' lips curled in a smile. "As did you," he said.

His friend's dark eyes were fixed on him. Nicholas could see the keen mind working behind them. "Your inability to withstand daylight," Mingo began. "You have always said that it could kill you. The strange absences at school…."

"Yes." Nicholas pivoted and looked toward the sunlit opening. The light was slowly creeping into the cave, advancing on him. "All that is good and pure. The light, the life it brings…." He swung back. "These are my enemies of old."

"You always had such knowledge at your command. You knew the ancient texts so well – "

Nicholas' laugh was bitter. "I knew the _ancients!_ "

Mingo shifted and rose shakily to his feet. After a moment's hesitation, he moved toward him. Mingo was still wearing the Redcoat uniform LaCroix had clothed him in. Nicholas frowned at the thought of his mentor, and the danger his own selfish quest had placed this good man in. The light was rising; still they must soon risk traveling to the cave where all of this began. Tonight LaCroix would strike.

They must be ready.

As Mingo came to rest beside him, he deliberately sought his gaze. The man had taken hold of the boy at last, overcoming his fear, but Nicholas could tell from the way his old friend trembled that the child was still there, bare moments away from clawing to the surface.

"I remember there was one myth in particular that you dismissed," Mingo said, his voice breaking as it came to the word, "of all the strange creatures we studied, this one you would not name. The _vampiri_."

Nicholas nodded. "We both agreed no such creature could exist."

"Yes. But we were wrong, were we not? I have learned much since I have returned to my mother's people. _Seen_ much. Witches. Animals possessed. I have seen the spirits of Wi-sha-sho." Mingo paused. "Is that what you are, Nicholas? A… vampire?"

He drew a deep breath. The he nodded.

What little color his friend had, drained from his face. "And LaCroix?"

Another nod. "Jeanne as well," he added.

"All three?"

Mingo raised a hand to his forehead and staggered back a step as if he had received a blow. Nicholas reached out to steady him. His friend flinched, but allowed the touch. For a second he hesitated, but then Nicholas' boyish grin broke through in spite of his best efforts at solemnity. "Now do you understand why I discouraged you when you thought of taking Jeanne out for a _bite_ to eat?"

Mingo laughed in spite of himself. Then he sobered quickly. "Rebecca! Is she in danger? And the children? I heard you tell her to go to a holy place for safety. Does LaCroix threaten her?"

"LaCroix threatens everything that is innocent, pure, and lovely in your mortal world. He would see it all ruined – crushed and destroyed. Even your symbols of faith are not enough to stop him, though they cause him pain. His evil is _more_ than ancient – it is primal. He belongs to the dark heart of the void."

"But Rebecca…."

"Mrs. Boone is strong. She will do what she must to save her children and herself. You and I cannot help her." Nicholas paused. What he said pained him, but he felt it had to be made clear. "Mingo, you must understand, LaCroix is far stronger than I. I cannot honestly say that I have _ever_ won a battle with him. He has either retreated of his own perverse accord, or I have triumphed through trickery."

For a moment Mingo said nothing, then a slight smile parted his parched and pallid lips. "You might as well speak of me, Nicholas, and _my_ father." He was silent for a moment. Then Mingo lifted a hand and placed it over his. "Is there nothing that can be done, Nicholas, to free you from this curse?"

Since it was his old friend who gazed at him, Nicholas did nothing to hide the tears that flooded his eyes. "For more than a hundred years I have sought the answer to that question. Would that I could have been like you, my friend, untouched by desire. What you were born to, I sought and thought I _must_ find. Wealth. Fame. Power. LaCroix offered them all."

"But for a price."

Nicholas nodded. "An _eternal_ price."

"And you have found no answer, in those hundred years?"

Nicholas broke away. "I am ashamed to admit it, but that is what brought me here. You know your people's legend of the Raven Mocker well. You are living it."

Mingo swallowed hard. "Yes."

"I came here seeking you, and the _living_ knowledge of your people's tales. There is, in an obscure monastery in France, a scrap of parchment upon which the Mocker's tale is told. The story is the usual one – of a man or woman who has chosen the path of evil, who becomes a Raven Mocker, and at the time of a man's death moves in to steal his remaining days. They fly through the air in fiery shape, with arms outstretched like wings, and sparks trailing behind, and a rushing sound like the noise of a strong wind. Every little while as they fly they make a cry like the a raven – and those who hear are afraid."

"Unless there is a holy man on guard who knows how to drive them away."

Nicholas nodded. "But did you know the tale goes on?"

Mingo shook his head.

"The Raven Mocker can assume other shapes as well. There is reference once to…a bat." Nicholas watched as the light of what he hoped dawned in his friend's weary eyes. "And, there is more. It is said that the Raven Mocker can change back to a mortal, if they _choose_ to do good."

"So you think, if you can find this creature, that they may be able to tell you how to come back – "

He breathed in all his hopes and let them out in one long sigh. "…from the land of the undead."

Mingo studied him for a moment and then asked, "What really happened, Nicholas? That night you found me in the Place of 1000 Spirits?"

"I don't know. I entered the cave, following the sound of your failing heartbeat. But there was something else there. I saw it move and take flight as I pushed farther into the cave. Then I found you, with Pitcairn dangling above." He hesitated. "I am sorry, my friend, but I think your healer is right. I think my _evil_ somehow acted as a bridge, allowing Pitcairn's dying soul to pass into you, rather than the Mocker who was trying to steal it."

Mingo's fingers gripped his shoulder tightly. "I wonder if he is here even now. Even when I am unaware of him. At times, he struggles to take control, and then, there are moments of rest. Pitcairn is desperate and I am weary, Nicholas. _So_ weary. I do not know how long I can hold on…."

Nicholas took Mingo's shoulders in his hands. "I _will_ save you. And your friends. I will _not_ allow LaCroix to triumph, even if it means the loss of my quest. Even if it means my own destruction!" He turned and looked at the stone floor near his feet, bathed now in the daylight's glow. "We must go to the Place of 1000 Spirits. We must _find_ the Raven Mocker."

"To save me?" Mingo asked.

Nicholas' blond head nodded. "To save us _all!"_

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel Boone had walked most the night and so it was, as the day dawned, that he sat down under a frozen tree to rest. His makeshift bed was a cold one, formed of a mat of needles and frozen leaves, but it would do. Again, he thought of Becky and his young ones. They would have the fire roaring by now. The cabin would be filled with sweet scents – coffee brewing, bread on the hearth, eggs frying in the pan. Becky might have even made a pie. Cherry maybe, or berry. The dried fruit would have been soaking overnight. His fingers were usually the first ones in the bowl to sample the reborn sweets. And the first to be smacked by the cook's ever watchful hand. His arms would then slide through hers; his hands anchor on her waist. Becky would smell of flour and wood-smoke, with the slight spice of vanilla, sweeter than any expensive perfume. He would breathe deep, and then he would kiss her.

And she, his love, his hope, his life, would kiss him back.

Dan sighed as he leaned his head back against frozen bark. He didn't let himself sigh very often, but at the moment it seemed the proper thing to do.

What was he doing out here in this frozen wilderness? What had Mingo been thinking? Had the Englishman in him feared the holy men of Chota couldn't help him? Had he believed his presence would bring death to the place of his mother's people, and so he fled the healer's tent?

Or had he simply run into the white night hoping to die?

Closing his eyes Dan sought a few minutes sleep, sensing he would need every ounce of strength he could muster before the day ended. He had just slipped into sleep when a sound, like the cry of a bird high above his head, awakened him. He opened his eyes and looked up, and for just a moment thought he saw a large black shape shooting across the dawning sky. Dan shot to his feet, wiping sleep from his eyes, and looked again. But whatever it had been, it was gone.

Frowning, he turned in the direction from which it had come.

The Place of 1000 Spirits.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"You said the Mocker could save us all earlier," Mingo said as they readied to leave the cave behind. His friend Nicholas had finished preparing his kit a few minutes before and stood now, at the edge of the light – the light that could _kill_ him. Mingo walked to the blond man's side. "The Raven Mocker is evil."

Nicholas did not look at him. His eyes were fixed on the world beyond. "Yes, it is evil. Perhaps more evil than LaCroix."

"Why do you think that?"

"The Raven Mocker does not steal men's blood," he answered, turning toward him, "but men's souls. LaCroix can only do that if one willingly surrenders. I am counting on that, and on the fact that it may also be more _powerful_ than he."

"You think the Raven Mocker may be able to stop LaCroix?" Mingo knew he sounded skeptical.

"What other hope do have we?" Nicholas reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "If we can get this creature to understand, to choose the _good_ , then perhaps we can all be free."

"You are such an eternal child!" a woman's voice snapped from just without the cave. As they both fell back, a cloaked form appeared, framed within its mouth.

It was smoking.

"Move out of my way!" the woman declared, her imperious voice marked by a French accent. "Do you wish me to burst into flames?"

Before Mingo could react, Nicholas declared, "Janette!"

The petite brunette pushed past them into the shadows and then swung about. As she reached up to lower her hood, Mingo noted the smoke rose, not from the garments she wore, but from her pale skin. Even more than his night flight with Nicholas, this was proof of the tale his friend told. The woman he knew as 'Jeanne' scowled at the red marks on her usually pristine white flesh and then looked from one of them to the other. In the end she stopped, her attention focused on him.

"You are afraid of me," she announced, her voice its usual sultry whisper.

He did not deny it. "Yes."

"Am I not the same woman you knew in England those few short years ago?"

"That is the problem, Janette," Nicholas said, coming close to her. "You _are_."

She pouted. "What a _boor_ you are, Nichola."

"Better that than a beast!" he snapped. Nicholas caught her hand and drew her away. Janette fought him at first, then she sneered and, bending her head, bit his hand before rising up to kiss him on the lips. Nicholas returned the kiss with relish and then thrust her away.

Mingo watched the exchange with horror. Even with his revelation, his old friend had seemed little different. He could almost pretend he had never been told. In Janette's company, it was different. Another Nicholas was revealed.

One he did not know at all.

Janette straightened her gown and primped where a lock of her deep brown hair had broken free of its upsweep. She smirked at Nicholas and then turned to look at him again.

"You have told him," she said at last.

"There was no choice," Nicholas answered, "if I was to save him."

"Save him! You idiot! You cannot save him. You cannot even save yourself!"

"But I shall die trying to do both," came Nicholas' quiet answer.

Janette snorted. "You cannot do _that_ either!"

"Why have you come, Janette? Is it only to insult me?"

Her lovely face grew dark. She actually shivered and drew her cloak close about her slender form. "I have come to warn you. Do not go to that place, Nicholas. Do not go anywhere near that _creature!"_

"Creature?" Mingo watched the truth dawn in his friend's light blue eyes. "You have seen the Raven Mocker?"

"I have seen something – something of a greater evil than us," she admitted. Pivoting, Janette pointed her finger at him. "But it is not our problem, Nichola, it is his!"

"Mingo is innocent in this."

"The creature thinks so too. It is Pitcairn it wants. Still, so long as they share one body, it does not care if it must go through Mingo to get him. Nor if it destroys us in the process." Janette folded her arms and pursed her petulant lips. "It is time for us to go, Nichola. Leave the mortals to their fate."

"No."

She stamped her foot. "You care nothing for them! It is yourself you think of. And that is sheer folly. You cannot _ever_ cross back."

Nicholas' words were still and quiet in the face of her fury. "I will never know unless I try."

"And what of LaCroix?"

"What of him?"

"The Cherokee witch is not the only one who seeks this one's soul. If we leave, LaCroix will follow. That is, perhaps, the _only_ way you can save Kerr."

Mingo had listened at first with interest, and then with horror. But he grew weary of being spoken of as if he was not in the room. "What is this, Nicholas? What does Jeanne…Janette mean?" He paused, and then added, his heart plunging, "Does this have something to do with my father's scheme?"

Janette looked triumphant. "Tell him, Nichola. Tell him of LaCroix's plans for his future."

Nicholas' head hung. "There will be no future with LaCroix. Not for Mingo. Not for me."

One of Janette's dark brows peaked. "You are right there will not be, for you both will be _dead_ if you seek to cross him! _Allow_ LaCroix to bring him across, and then you both will live forever!"

At first he was not certain he had understood her but then, as Janette turned back and eyed him hungrily, Mingo realized he had. "My father has agreed to make me one of you?" he asked, disbelieving.

Nicholas looked up at him. "No. No, not _your_ father. It is LaCroix's scheme, to take one of the peerage for his own, to use them to influence events, people… To play his eternal games!" His voice fell to a whisper as he raised his hands and drew his fingers into fists. "I will not allow it!"

"Not even to save _him_ from oblivion?" Janette countered.

Nicholas' eyes were filled with pain.

"Not even then."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Outside the snow that blanketed Boonesborough's common gleamed like the leprechaun's legendary pot of gold. Rebecca Boone hugged a shawl about her shoulders as she stared out the tavern window, watching the wind whip the white waves higher and higher. This new storm had come in during the night and was moving at a fast clip toward the far distant hills where her husband walked, to the land where Nicholas Knightsford and Mingo had fled hoping to find the answers they would need to stop the rising tide of Lucien LaCroix's evil. At first, she had not known what to do. Should she keep the children with her or send them away? This man – this _creature_ in human form – seemed unstoppable. Could any of them truly escape his ice blue stare? Was there a way to make certain her children were safe? After a half hour on her knees she had come to a decision. She would trust to her God. She had asked the preacher, and he had agreed to take Jemima and Israel in.

He had also given her permission to take refuge in the school house that served as the settlement's only church.

With a sigh, Becky turned toward the stair and gazed up it. Cincinnatus was resting. She would stay with him throughout the day and then, just before candlelighting, she would make her way to their place of faith and fall prostrate before her God, pleading with him for the lives of her children, for those of her husband and friend, for poor tormented Nicholas –

And for herself.

Before he left, Nicholas had told her what she must do. She must wear her cross. She must hold fast to her Bible. She must surround herself with every symbol of the true light she could find. And she must – she _must_ have fire at her command. The instruments of her faith would slow the ancient creature, even pain him, but nothing less than a holy fire of incredible intensity stood a chance of cleansing Boonesborough of the evil that was LaCroix.

Becky left the window and walked toward the hearth. Once there, she reached out and placed her fingers just above the licking flames. It was so strange, the dual nature of the world. This fire, which brought much needed warmth, that allowed them to cook and to preserve food, could also kill. If she was forced to set fire to the church to destroy LaCroix –

Might she not destroy them all?

As the vision of the settlement and all that was dear to her burning to the ground rose before her eyes, Becky sobbed and fell to her knees. Her trembling fingers sought the cross around her neck and held it tightly, and her lips began to move once again in prayer.

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The baneful object of Rebecca Boone's desperate fear was staring out of a window as well, cloaked within the shadows cast by its elegant velvet draperies. At dawn Lucien LaCroix had returned to Williamsburg, to the governor's palace, to seek out his old friend Lord Dunsmore and tell him of his progress. LaCroix was looking now at the snow covered green that stretched before the rebellious colony's answer to the great seats of government in Europe. While it had its provincial charm, Williamsburg was raw and lacked the refinement of the courts of the kings. The colonials misguided ideals – Imagine, thinking all men equal! – left them blind to what they could possess; to the pleasures of power born of the fruits long cultivated by their forbearers. Power was everything. Power _over_ all.

Or over one.

Lord Dunsmore had not yet risen when he arrived and so Lucien had been directed to his friend's study. There, he had found a letter the governor general had begun. A letter written to his errant son begging his forgiveness. It remained unfinished – just as his own business with John Murray was unfinished. At least, that was, until after nightfall.

The nightfall that would see another _worthy_ added to his little…family.

LaCroix had made his mind up. He would bring the peer's son over. With Nicholas' help, he was certain the former Kerr Murray would acquiesce. Why would he not? Who could resist the temptation of eternal life? Even Nicholas, whose heart had been pure and good, could not. Man, after all, was driven by only a few things – power, lust, desire…greed. Even the best of men. Mingo would acquiesce with little persuasion and then, why, the possibilities were endless. He was in good standing with Daniel Boone, and so had his finger on the pulse of the west. And was known to the English as well. What could be more perfect? Mingo would make the consummate 'son', loyal and able to do his bidding, infiltrating both sides, making this coming war _his_.

After the war, as Kerr Murray, Mingo would resume his place at his father's side and, after the old man's death, would become an Earl. LaCroix beamed. "One of my boys a peer," he whispered, pleased with himself. And such a talented and attractive son. No one would be able to resist him.

"You are _so_ good," he told himself.

"Lucien, old friend, what brings you here?" John Murray ran a hand through his grizzled hair to straighten it as he walked into the study. "And at such an unholy hour?"

"I rode through the night to see you. With news of our enterprise." LaCroix crossed to the desk. He stopped and then leaned forward, touching a finger to the unfinished letter. "About which it seems, old friend _,_ you are having second thoughts."

Lord Dunsmore's face grew long, becoming all jowls and lines. LaCroix's pale lips pursed and he shook his head. Humans aged so quickly. Their lives but the stuff of a few beats of the heart. No wonder it seemed a matter of little consequence to snuff them out.

"I am. I was." John Murray dropped into his chair and ran a hand across his face. "Kerr will hate me."

"He hates you now."

The mortal's eyes reproached him. "No. I have spoken with him. We have a…small gap in our understanding. It only needs to be bridged."

"It will never be bridged. Not in _this_ life," LaCroix sneered.

John Murray looked up at him. "Lucien, you are ever the prophet of gloom and doom."

LaCroix shrugged. "Just being realistic, John. I _know_ my son hates me. And that is how I know I have his love."

The mortal continued to stare at him for a moment. Then he leaned forward and picked the letter up. "You notice it is unfinished?"

"Yes. Will it remain so?"

John Murray linked his hands together over the piece of parchment. "Tell me of your progress so far, Lucien, and perhaps I will decide."

LaCroix nodded, slightly amused. "Fair enough. I know where your son is. He is with Nicholas, and vulnerable. I can take him the moment you give your assent."

Lord Dunsmore looked skeptical. "Why have you not had him taken already then? You had your _commission,_ did you not?"

"Ah. Yes. A fine point." LaCroix rested a hip on the corner of the ornate desk. "I _did_ have the commission. What I did not have was confidence in your backing that commission up. I sensed, the last time we spoke, a certain _reluctance_ on your part when it came to putting the plan into action."

"I fear Kerr's reaction."

"Do you? Or do you simply fear your son?"

At that the English lion roused, growing angry. "How dare you insult me in such a way, _General_ LaCroix!"

LaCroix held his hands up in a show of surrender. "I meant no insult. John, you know me. I merely speak the truth. If you did not fear your son, you would do without hesitation what you know is best, which is to remove him from any and all influences which give succor and support to his rebellious nature." LaCroix leaned in closer. He did not use his supernatural influence – he did not need to – but the words were hushed and heavy with intent. "Crush Kerr's insolent rebellion as you would the colonists'. He, as they, will be happier when firmly controlled."

John Murray said nothing. He rose from his chair and walked to the window and stood, staring out at the snow-covered lawn.

LaCroix crossed to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "An iron fist, John, that is what the boy needs. Give me your word and he is taken! I will arrange to transport Kerr back to England, and to deposit him at your estate. Janette and Nicholas will travel with me, making the journey more… _pleasant_ for him."

Dunsmore was silent for some time. Looking at LaCroix he said, "So your own boy has made his peace with you then?"

Lucien LaCroix's thin lips curled in a satisfied sneer. "Not yet, John, but he will.

"He _will_."

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Becky closed the door to Cincinnatus' room quietly behind her. The older man was sleeping peacefully now, free of the dreams that had earlier troubled his sleep. She passed down the corridor and descended the stair to the common room of the tavern. After pausing a moment to speak to Jericho, who had come to keep watch in her absence, she headed for the door. Before opening it, she drew a cloak about her shoulders and lifted the hood to shield her face. Outside the returned snowstorm howled with a vengeance, as if angry for lost time. Soon, any territory they had regained would be lost, buried once more in a blanket of purest white.

As the myriad flakes fell, a silence descended with them – a profound silence not too far distant from that of the grave. With the exception of the wind, the world held its breath. It waited, even as _she_ waited, for what was to come.

Becky's footsteps left several inch-deep impressions in the snow as she made her way across the common. Just before she reached the other side she halted, and looked back at the tavern. In her mind's eye she could see Mingo walking out, Nicholas Knightsford by his side. Could see Nicholas taking the other man in his arms and –

Becky shivered. Where were they now? Nicholas and Mingo? Did they live?

And where was Dan?"

"Daniel Boone, you come back to me," she called out, even as she lifted her foot again and turned toward the cabin that served as school and church. "You hear me, Dan? You come back."

The wind rose. It took hold of her cloak and snapped it sharply, and then shoved her toward her destination as if mocking her pain. Becky stumbled but kept going. The school swam in a sea of snow. Someone had cleared a path to the door, but the wind and falling flakes had already filled it, forming little waves that crashed upon the weathered wood. As she approached, Becky noted the cabin's interior was not completely dark. A light shone in its interior. She hesitated, unsure. Could the preacher have lit and left it, knowing she was to come? Welcoming as it was, the flickering flame filled her with unexpected dread. Trembling, Becky drew closer, chiding herself all the while for giving in to womanish fears. Reaching out, she placed her fingers on the door. Knowing it should be unbarred, she gave it a gentle shove. As the door swung in it left a trail of white on the brown dirt floor.

Becky crossed the threshold and stood still for a moment. Then she closed the door behind her. Turning back, she saw the cabin was dark, with the single exception of the candle flame. She stared at it, frowning, and then gasped as it seemed to rise and float in the air.

It was then she realized someone was holding it.

"You have no need to fear me, Madame. I, like you, am but a weary pilgrim seeking momentary sanctuary from the rising storm."

The man had a British accent. She wondered briefly if it was the surviving soldier who had brought Mingo to the fort. "I'm not afraid," she said, meaning it. Well, at least by half.

"Then you are not as wise as I thought you were."

"What do you mean by that?" she snapped, her temper showing.

The man's laugh was gentle, if haunted. "Fear is a man's friend. The bosom companion of his youth. It is fear that keeps him alive."

" 'Of his youth', you say? What of his old age then?"

"Fear of the grave, Madame, accomplishes the same thing. It makes a man cling to life when, perhaps, he would otherwise roll over and die."

"Who are you?" she demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"Am I not welcome then?" The candle shifted, moving toward the altar which was set aside and occupied a corner of the school room. "Are not _all_ welcome in God's house?"

"Of course, they are. It's just…. " Becky drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, I didn't expect to find anyone here."

"And you haven't, Madame," the man replied, "not really."

Becky's hand went to her hip. "Now just what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

The man turned and, for just a moment, she had a glimpse of him. He had a

stubbled face, a pair of weary eyes, and black hair that flashed with silver. There was even the hint of a pallid smile.

"I remember you," the man said, his voice waking from weariness. "Mrs. Boone, isn't it?"

"Why, yes. Do I know you?"

After a pause he said, "You were kind to me once. A lifetime ago."

"Please, tell me who you are." Becky took a step forward, but the man reacted by retreating into the shadows.

"I am nothing and no one. A weary pilgrim, as I said, ready to meet his maker – if only _she_ would let me!"

"She? Who is 'she'?"

By now her eyes had adjusted enough to see that the man was dressed in a well worn uniform. She couldn't tell if it was blue or scarlet.

" 'She', Madame, is the one who seeks to rob me of eternal peace. But she will not win. She shall not!" The man's voice grew ragged. "I will not be outwitted by a savage!"

"An Indian?"

"An _animal_ , Madame." He paused and then laughed – the sound of it sent chills along her spine.

Becky was trembling afresh. She knew him, though she could not believe _what_ it was she knew. Taking another step, she entered the ring of light cast by the candle. "Henry Pitcairn?" she asked.

"Once upon a time that was my name. But this sad parade is quickly drawing to a close. One final salute, and it is ended."

"What does that mean?"

Pitcairn stepped forward. The light fully illuminated his long spare form. "The _cave_ , Madame. He approaches the cave. Soon we will be one. And then, Mingo will be no more!"

"No!" Becky shouted. She dashed across the room, meaning to confront him – to hold him somehow back from his terrible purpose. As she did a sudden wind arose and whistled through the schoolhouse. It lifted her copper hair and blew the flame out, even as the brass candlestick Henry Pitcairn held clattered to the floor, leaving her in darkness.

And alone.

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On the crest of a snow covered hill, halfway between Boonesborough and the Place of 1000 Spirits, stood a man and a woman. They were heedless of the cold frigid night and its wintry blasts. The man, whose hair was whiter than the snow itself, bellowed with mirthless glee as the slender woman with dark upswept locks related her tale.

"What? What is it you find so delightful?" she demanded.

"So _that_ is why Nicholas came to this place. He actually believes this Cherokee crone can cure him." LaCroix's laughter continued, echoing from the nearby cliffs, chilling even the icicles that dangled from their edge. "How rich! How like Nicholas! He is _such_ an innocent."

"You do not think there is anything to this legend then?" Janette inquired quietly.

LaCroix struck snowflakes from his white lashes. "Oh, on the contrary, Janette, I think there is much to recommend it. A soul sucking crone who rips her victim's hearts out and steals their remaining years? Why, that is a woman after my own heart!"

"LaCroix!" Janette was impatient. "So far as the legend applies to Nichola?"

"Oh, you mean this nonsense about changing back to a mortal by doing good?" He shook his head. "Can the boy not learn to be content with a pat on the head?"

Janette studied him a moment and then snuggled up against him. "LaCroix, you can tell me. _Is_ there a way back? Will Nichola ever find it?"

He looked down at her. "Would you like him to?"

She drew a breath. Her breast rose and fell within its blue silk sheath. Janette pursed her lips and considered it – for about a second.

"Non."

"Good girl!" He said, patting her on the head. "No, Janette, there is no way back. And the sooner Nicholas comes to terms with that reality, the happier he will be."

"I do not think Nichola will _ever_ be happy," Janette pouted.

"Oh, but there you are wrong, my dear." LaCroix raised his arm and gathered her in like a chick under the wing of his great black cloak. "You'll see a smile on Nicholas' face tonight….

"When I present him with a new baby brother."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Janette had deserted them, leaving the cave sometime during the night. It was just as well. Even if her terror of confronting the Raven Mocker again had not driven her away, he could never have trusted her. She had proven all too often where her loyalties lay and, though she would protest that she loved him, it was LaCroix she felt compelled to obey.

Nicholas turned toward the horizon and watched as the sun slipped into the sheath of dark trees, leaving a blood red trail behind it. They had perhaps an hour before it grew completely dark. It was not much time, but it would be more than enough to return to the haunted cavern and summon its resident demon, and to beg or cajole the creature into aiding them. If he could make it understand that by choosing to do what was right it might be redeemed – that it was in its _own_ best interest to help them – then perhaps it would be willing to abandon its vendetta against Henry Pitcairn to do so.

That was, if it _wanted_ to be redeemed.

Nicholas' lengthy sigh drew his companion's attention. The snow was swirling about them, the thick flakes descending like the hordes of the Hun. Even with his keen and unnatural sight he could just make out Mingo's silhouette. His friend, he knew, must be nearly blind.

"Are you ready?" Nicholas asked him, raising his voice to be heard above the howling wind.

For a moment Mingo said nothing. Then only, "They're here."

Nicholas glanced about, but saw no one. "Who?"

"The spirits of Wi-sha-sho."

"You are mistaken my friend," Nicholas said as he approached him. "It is only your imagination working the snow into some semblance of man."

Mingo stood with his arms wrapped tightly about his chest. "Do you not hear them whispering?"

"No. It is only the wind."

His friend remained silent for several heartbeats. Then he turned and looked at him. "There are others as well, Nicholas. Men. Women. Some of them are so young."

Nicholas' frown deepened. He looked again but still saw nothing. "Who? Who else do you see?"

Mingo shuddered and looked away. "Those whom _you_ have killed."

As he spoke the wind rose in ferocity. It buffeted them, driving them forward, toward the cave. In it Nicholas heard words of condemnation. _Foul creature_ , it cried. _Murderer._

 _Beast._

Startled, he pivoted almost faster than the eye could see to look behind. But there was nothing there. Nothing but white.

Mingo waited until he turned back. Then he did a strange thing. He nodded in the direction of the Place of 1000 Spirits, his lips twisting with a wry smile.

"Are _you_ ready, Nicholas?"

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The cave was strangely warm. And curiously empty.

Mingo held still, listening, feeling…. But there was nothing. Henry Pitcairn was not here. Not without...

Or within.

Turning back toward the cave mouth, he sought Nicholas. His friend hesitated outside, as if unwilling to enter; his pale upright figure nearly one with the dancing snow. As they neared the cave they had both fallen silent. There was no way of knowing what the Place of 1000 Spirits held. Hope or despair. Life or death – or perhaps something far worse.

Mingo opened his mouth to call him, but stopped as the snow behind the blond man began to take form. As he watched, the silent spirits that had journeyed with him since the night his old friend had rescued him, began to file into the cave, passing directly through the immortal's form. Nicholas shuddered uncharacteristically, but otherwise seemed not to notice. Wave upon wave of bleeding, bruised natives filed past him, until they lined the chamber he stood within. At the last a young woman appeared, clutching the hand of a small toddling child. She paused at Nicholas' side and eyed him with pity, and then made her way across the cave.

"What do you want?" Mingo asked her as she halted before him. The woman shook her head. She placed a finger to her lips, calling him to silence. Then she reached out and placed a transparent hand on his arm. Her soul brushed his.

And he understood.

The truth she spoke to him was so profound it stunned him. Tears formed in his eyes and, for a moment, he was unable to speak. Into that silence came a sound – like the whisper of a bat's wing on stone.

"So, you have returned," the ancient voice stated. "But you are alone. Where is Henry Pitcairn?"

Mingo held the young woman's gaze. She smiled sadly as she released him. He nodded and then turned toward the creature draped in black. The spirit of the young woman had given him words to speak. Words not for hurting, but for healing. It seemed so simple now – so clear.

How could he have gotten it so wrong?

Mingo drew a deep breath and let it out, releasing pain and fear with it. Then he asked, "What is your name, mother?"

The blackness cackled. "Mother? You are kind."

"You had a name once, did you not?" he replied. "What is it? You were someone's mother, or sister. Someone's daughter."

A shadow fluttered across the stones, brushing Nicholas' lean form where he waited, just inside the cave, listening.

"That creature is dead," the shadow answered.

"No," Mingo challenged. "She is still within you – the woman you were. Nicholas, tell her."

His friend started. Then he took another step. It was hesitant, as if he was afraid. But then, Nicholas did not know the truth. If Mingo had not known it, he _too_ would have been afraid.

"Mingo is right. Though you have embraced evil, there is still good in you."

"Good? What good? There is no good in me. I killed it – _sacrificed_ it for power and powerful magic. For eternal life." The Raven Mocker paused. "Even as _you_ sacrificed your soul."

Nicholas' voice was ragged. "That was a mistake. If I could take it back, I would do so – "

" _I_ would not!" the creature declared even as it became airborne and hung over their heads like a pendulous cloud.

Mingo glanced at Nicholas before speaking again. His old friend seemed without hope. He wished he could have told him what he knew, but there was no time. "Mother," he said clearly, "I do not believe that. Nor do the ones who haunt this cave. They are here now. They have waited for you."

"They have waited to destroy me!" the Raven Mocker shrieked as it crossed the cave and landed on the cairn of rocks they had raised above Henry Pitcairn's bones.

"No. No, they haven't," he said softly. "You. Me. We have all gotten it wrong."

Nicholas moved to his side. "Mingo, my friend, what _is_ this? What are you saying?"

"I should have known," he answered with a weary shake of his head. "Though they are Shawnee, these spirits are of _the People_. I should have known, but Pitcairn's madness blinded me, made me see a threat where none was offered. Made me run in fear as though they would destroy me." Mingo's hand came down on Nicholas' shoulder. "As we thought, the spirits of Wi-sha-sho _have_ made their peace with Henry Pitcairn. They did so when Daniel and I came to this place." He turned and looked at the black form perched on the rocks. "It is the Raven Mocker they want."

"To take vengeance on?"

Mingo shook his head. "To grant absolution."

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f he'd been a cursing man Dan would have know what to call the cold, but since he wasn't, he simply pulled his coat tighter, his cap lower, gripped his gun and continued to tramp through the snow that rose now at times to the top of his thighs. The cave couldn't be very far away. More than half a day had passed and the sun was just setting behind the white horizon. The snow had melted from gold to a blood red and now ran to the purple of grapes. Soon night would fall and he really needed to be inside. He could barely feel his fingers or his toes.

As he trudged on his thoughts turned once again to home. He wondered what Becky was doing, and Jemima, and that ornery boy of his. Since they were stuck inside, Israel was probably giving his mother nothing but grief. A crooked smile lifted the corner of Dan's lips. So long as he knew they were safe, he could face whatever was thrown at him.

And yet, with the puzzle Nicholas Knightsford's presence put before him, could he really trust that they were?

He'd never deny it – though truth to tell, he wasn't always the first to admit it – but, of the two of them, Becky was the strongest. Her faith was what did it. Rock steady. Unshakable. She bent her knee to the Almighty every morning and each night, and renewed her belief with every breath. It was harder for him. It was a man's job to care for his own, not to ask someone else to do it. And though he relied on the Almighty for back up, when it came to putting everything in the Lord's hands…well…he had a tendency to hang on to whatever he was asking about and not quite let go.

Dan stopped and turned his face toward the heavens. The storm had taken a breath and above him a million stars ranged, glinting like sunlight on the backs of silver trout swimming a deep, wide, blue sea. In spite of it all – in spite of cruelty and hate, in spite of prejudice, greed and avarice, there was this – the immensity that spoke of something bigger, of something better yet to come.

"You take care of them," Dan said softly, "while I can't."

And that was about as far as he could go.

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"To grant absolution?" Nicholas asked as he turned to stare at the ragged black shape perched atop the pile of stones. "Absolution for what?"

His old friend, Mingo, stood with his hand out, as if reaching for someone. For a moment Nicholas thought it was a sign of his madness returning, but then he began to consider that – perhaps – there _was_ something there. As he watched Mingo nodded as if answering someone, and then turned to look at him. "Come here, Nicholas," he said, raising his other hand. "Take my hand. _See_ what I see."

"What is this, mortal man?" the Raven Mocker snarled. "Some deception to save your soul? It will not work, I tell you!"

Mingo glanced in her direction. Nicholas did the same. The sound of her voice startled him.

She was frightened.

He did not know what Mingo was up to, or if it would work. So many things about his visit to Boonesborough had gone against his vast experience. There was true nobility here in this little settlement – true honor and courage. It gave him hope that LaCroix might somehow be defeated, and that this man who stood before him – and his friends – might yet be saved.

Mingo's grip was sure as he took his hand and belied the weakened state he was in. Looking at him, Nicholas wondered how he was keeping to his feet. He started to say something but fell silent as a slender shape, transparent as a dragonfly's wings, took form before his eyes. It was a young Indian woman. She balanced a small child on her hip. Her arm was extended, and she gripped Mingo's fingers with her other hand.

"Who is she?" Nicholas asked, breathless.

"Her name is Waapa. White. And her son is Dancing Dog." Mingo nodded toward the cave floor beside them. "Her bones lie here in this place."

It never ceased to surprise him – his amazement with things supernatural. But then again, LaCroix denied an afterlife for mortals. His master decried the idea of demons or a devil – though most would say that was what they, as vampires, were. In all the centuries Nicholas had lived, he had seen precious little to prove otherwise. But there had been a few phantoms that were undeniable….

Like this woman.

As he studied her, Waapa looked up and met his gaze. Her brown eyes were expressive; wide and black as the baked heart of the fire. He saw no malice in them. No hatred.

Only peace.

Nicholas glanced at Mingo. "What does she want? Has she said?"

"She wants my death! They _all_ want my death!" the Raven Mocker shrieked. "And I would give it to them – to her – but I cannot!" She fell silent a moment and when she continued, her ancient voice was filled with silent tears. "I cannot. I sold my death to become what I am."

Nicholas shuddered. This was his sin as well.

Waapa released Mingo's hand. She held his for a moment longer before surrendering it; her near black eyes fastened on his face and filled with pity. Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief when she did not vanish. Her absence would have left the place cold. As Waapa crossed the cave, headed for the pile of rocks that masked Henry Pitcairn's bones, he glanced at Mingo. His old friend was swaying on his feet. He looked exhausted. But so far, Mingo seemed to be his own man. Nicholas wondered where in all of this magic the British officer was, and why his roving spirit had not returned to the cave with them. Certainly _here_ he would have the greatest power.

By the time Waapa reached the Raven Mocker's side, the ragged shadow was shaking uncontrollably, racked with sobs. "I did not know," she cried. "I should have known…. But when I did, it could not be taken back."

The spirit of Waapa knelt at her child's side. As she did, Nicholas realized she was no longer alone. For the firs time he saw the others Mingo had spoken of – not his own victims, but the victims of the Raven Mocker and Henry Pitcairn's evil choices. Shawnee braves and their wives. Their children. All butchered, bleeding and broken. All waiting in silence. There were dozens of them surrounding Waapa, and dozens more who ranged out of the cave mouth, their shadowy forms fading into the driven snow. Taking her child's hand, Waapa rose to her feet. She reached out and took hold of the tattered remnants of black cloth that covered the Raven Mocker's head and threw them back, revealing a scarred head nearly bare of hair, and an ancient face burnt almost beyond recognition. The creature was altogether vile, and yet, from deep within its horrid eyes something shown. A light Nicholas recognized well.

A ray of hope.

Waapa lifted her child from the ground and offered it to the ravaged creature. Withered arms, brown as old apples, hesitated and then, trembling, took it. That was all. The old woman took the babe in her arms. A mortal watching would have said nothing happened. But Nicholas knew differently. With her simple gesture of forgiveness, Waapa removed the evil that haunted the Place of 1000 Spirits.

He turned to find Mingo smiling. "What is this all about?" he asked.

Mingo tried to speak, but his voice broke. He cleared it and started again. "How small our perspective is on this side of the grave, Nicholas. Because we, as living men, seek vengeance, we assume it is the same with the dead. The spirits in this cave did not remain behind to torment and destroy Henry Pitcairn – his own guilt did that. Nor did they stay to seek revenge as did the Shawnee who loved them. They remained behind because of this woman – because of the one who betrayed them. But not to condemn her. Like Pitcairn, she has condemned herself for her crime."

"Which was?"

"Henry Pitcairn needed someone on the inside. This woman was filled with hatred. She believed the people of Wi-sha-sho had harmed her. The Raven Mocker is Cherokee. In the endless wars between our people, her husband and many of her children were killed. She led the British soldiers to Wi-sha-sho in order to take revenge, never knowing that – in the end – her choice would damn her to an endless perdition of regret."

Nicholas' gaze returned to Waapa, her child, and the Raven Mocker. Waapa was speaking softly – spirit words too soft for even his supernatural ears. Though still scarred and hideous in its aspect, the Mocker's face had softened with its tears.

She looked almost human.

"She was damned because she chose to sell her soul for power?"

Mingo shook his head. "No. That came later. In the aftermath of what she had done to Waapa and Dancing Dog."

Nicholas looked at the child still cradled in the old woman's arms. Its small face was beaming. "Who is Waapa, Mingo? Who is she?"

"The Raven Mocker had no way of knowing. The month before Wi-sha-sho burned, Waapa had journeyed there and joined her hand in marriage to a man in the village. With her, she brought her child. When Henry Pitcairn's men burned their village and slaughtered the Shawnee, Waapa died, as did Dancing Dog. Horribly. Brutally. _Who_ is she?

"Waapa was the Raven Mocker's grandchild."

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Simply physically exhausted, Dan had been forced to halt. The snow had returned and it raged mightily, piling high in drifts that threatened to knock off his coonskin cap. The Place of 1000 Spirits was not far, but it was farther than he had the strength to go. Luckily, he had found another cave close by. Entering it, he had been surprised to find that he was not the first to visit it that day. Kneeling now by the remnants of a fire, Dan picked at the ashes, trying to judge by them how long it had been cold. Beside it there were enough prints painted in the gray stuff to tell him that one of the men had an English cobbler.

Instinct told him it was Nicholas Knightsford.

That man's comings and goings were a mystery. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought Mingo's old school chum really _could_ fly. As he stood and dusted his hands off on his knees, he pursed his lips and shook his head. It was all too much for him. Turning, Dan leaned his back against the wall and then slid down it into a comfortable position. Placing Ticklicker close at hand, he wrapped his arms about his lean body for warmth and then closed his eyes and fell into a restive sleep.

A few minutes later a strong wind brushed his seated figure, shifting the tail of his coonskin cap so it tickled his nose. Reaching up, he shoved it away. Then he ran a finger across his nose and sniffed, and settled back in.

But only for a moment.

Someone was singing.

Dan frowned. He listened for a moment, until he could make out the words. "Musha rig um du rum da, whack fol the daddy-o. Whack fol the daddy-o …there's whiskey in the jar.'

Dan drew a breath and opened his eyes as a shiver ran along his spine. A man stood silhouetted in the cave's mouth; a long lean man wearing a British officer's uniform. As he watched, the man moved into the darkened recess. His head was down and he dragged his feet, as if he was weary to death. Feeling like a fool, Dan took hold of a portion of the skin on his thigh and pinched it hard. He bit his lip to keep quiet.

Yep. He was awake.

And it _was_ Henry Pitcairn.

" 'Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall," the British officer remarked, almost to himself. "Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none. And some condemned for a fault alone.' " He came to a halt just in front of Dan and waited until he met his haunted stare. "Have you ever wondered how the Bard came to be so wise, Mr. Boone? With a few words he sums up a man's life and dismisses it."

"I heard you'd made a reappearance," Dan said, shifting his hand slightly closer to his rifle.

Pitcairn did not miss the move. His sneer was dismissive. "You might say that."

"For a dead man, you look pretty good."

" 'I dreamt my lady came and found me dead. Strange dream that gives a man leave to _think_ '…." Pitcairn replied.

He was gray as a ghost, but Dan could see the Pitcairn's uniform rising and falling with each ragged breath. The man was substantial as the cave itself. The only thing that made any sense was that Mingo and Nicholas had been mistaken. The body hanging in the cave must have belonged to someone else. That, or Henry Pitcairn was playing a sick game.

Dan rose slowly to his feet. He picked up Ticklicker and held her at ease. "You're about as dead as I am, lieutenant."

Pitcairn shook his head slowly. "Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Boone…."

"What do you want? From what I hear, you've been bedeviling Mingo. Now I know you ain't exactly what you'd call a 'friend' of the Indians, but Mingo helped you…."

Pitcairn surprised him by laughing – desperately. "I hold no animosity toward your dark skinned friend, Mr. Boone. Quite the contrary. I only await the time I can come to know him better. We are destined to be very _close_."

His tone was sinister.

Dan gripped Ticklicker as he issued the challenge. "You'll have to go _through_ me to hurt Mingo," he growled.

Henry Pitcairn's thin lips twisted with a smirk. "That, Mr. Boone, will not be a problem."

And with that, the British officer rushed him.

By the time Ticklicker discharged Pitcairn's chest was only inches away. When the smoke cleared, Dan looked down expecting to find his corpse. Instead he found nothing.

As he promised, Henry Pitcairn _had_ gone right through him and disappeared.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Night had fallen. And though the night was God's creation, Rebecca Boone feared it, for it meant the return of her tormentor. She was sitting next to the fire she had kindled, reading her Bible. There was little else to do to occupy herself. She had tried to pray, but found she was too distracted. In the end she had simply abandoned her needs to God and asked that His spirit give voice to her heart's concerns. After that she had flipped through the pages of the Good Book, seeking scriptures that promised peace and security, but somehow she always seemed to stop on the darker passages, like the one she had just closed the page on. The one about a demon named 'Legion'.

Becky laid her hands on the soft black leather and leaned back, resting her head against the chair and closed her eyes.

"How quaint, a church," a soft sinister voice breathed. "Was this Nicholas' idea? I suppose he hoped your little half-human god would prevail against me." As Lucien LaCroix materialized just within the door, he snarled, "Nicholas is, as ever, a fool!"

It had taken everything in her, but she had neither cried out or started. She would not give this villain the satisfaction. Calmly laying her Bible on the table beside her, Becky rose from the chair and faced him.

"God will count Nicholas among the saints one day."

"Nicholas? In your black book's vernacular, Mrs. Boone, he would be counted amongst the worst of sinners."

"No." She shook her head. "He repents of what he has become. He is not beyond redemption." Becky paused. It was hard to say it, but she knew it to be true. "As you are."

LaCroix raised a hand to his chest as if it had been pierced with an arrow. "Dear Lady! You pain me. _Truly_." He approached her slowly, moving to the right and brushing his fingers on a table; then to the left, letting them linger on the back of a chair – like a panther stalking, savoring the prize it knows cannot escape. "And here I thought no one was beyond redemption in your homespun philosophy."

"They weren't before. But then, I had never met anyone like you."

LaCroix threw his head back and laughed heartily. "No. No, I suppose you have not. And what do you think of me?" he asked as he came even closer.

Becky's hand went to the cross at her throat; her fingers clutching it. "You are pure evil."

"Well," he said with a slight grin, "at least something about me is _pure_ …." LaCroix's ice blue eyes slid down her throat, briefly resting on the cross in her fingers, and then flitted to the fire before settling on the Good Book where it lay on the table before the fire. "What would you think of your God if I told you that these _trinkets_ cannot stop me?"

"I would say that Paul was beheaded in Rome, and Christians put to the torch for their faith, but that does not mean that God is not stronger than you."

LaCroix wrinkled his nose. "Oh, yes. A putrid smell, all that burning flesh. But the human torches _did_ light the night so well. And the screams were well worth price…."

Becky gritted her teeth to keep from flinching. "So you mean to kill me?" she asked a second later.

He looked at her, his lips pursed. Like Legion, a thousand demons danced in his ageless eyes. "Oh, yes…eventually. But I find you – how shall I put this – _fascinating_? So fresh, so fiery, absolutely a delightful surprise. An intelligent beauty planted amongst the bumpkins."

"I will not yield to you."

"Oh, no. If you did it would spoil all the fun." LaCroix reached for her throat, but she noted, pulled back just short of touching the cross. "You, my dear lady, at the moment are merely bait for a bigger… _fish_."

"Mingo?" she squeaked.

"The earl's son. Yes." For a moment he held very still. Then he surprised her by striking out like a snake with his hand, capturing both her fingers and the cross within them.

"What will he _not_ do to save you?"

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Nicholas landed gently and unfolded his cape, releasing his old friend to stand on his own. Mingo was enough Cherokee to accept what he was – but enough Englishman to still doubt his eyes. They had flown from the Place of 1000 Spirits in a few minutes, accomplishing what – on a normal day – would have taken hours and today, during the storm, been all but impossible.

His friend turned to stare at him. "Am I dreaming this?"

Nicholas' lips curled in a wry smile. "We can only hope we are _both_ dreaming, and that we will awake soon to our old lives." He studied him for a moment. "There is no sign of Pitcairn? You are, yourself?"

Mingo nodded. "For the moment. It is odd. He was with me, ever present, so much so I felt I was losing myself. Now, it has been hours and there is no sign."

"I imagine he feared the Raven Mocker too much to enter the cave. Though where he has gone gadding, I cannot imagine." Nicholas thought about it a moment. The longer Pitcairn was absent, the more nervous he became. "Silence is not always a good thing, my friend. It speaks of gain made through stealth."

"I will take what I can get, Nicholas. At the moment Rebecca has need of me. The time LaCroix appointed has come."

"And we are ready for him. We have but to get him to the cave." They had spoken to the Raven Mocker, with the spirit of Waapa at her side. She had agreed to help them. When offered the hope that she might redeem the evil choice she had made with a single good act, she had snatched it. They would meet LaCroix and lure him somehow to the Place of 1000 Spirits. There she would pit her magical power against his evil.

It was their only hope.

"First we must see Rebecca safely away," Mingo insisted. "I cannot do anything until I know she – What? What is it?"

Nicholas had gripped his arm. With a nod he indicated the fort which lay buried in a bank of snow before them – snow that was glowing a brilliant fiery orange-red. Even as the truth dawned in his friend's eyes, Boonesborough's inhabitants woke to their danger. An alarum bell clanged. Someone shouted.

"Fire! Fire!"

Nicholas swallowed over his fear. "She has done it," he said.

"Then that means LaCroix is here!" Mingo shook free of his grip. "Take us inside, Nicholas! Now! We _must_ save her!"

Nicholas complied. Wrapping his friend in his cloak, he lifted them into the air and over the white waves that crested above the fort's defenses, depositing them inside. Their arrival was noted only by one sleepy boy who glanced out of a rugged window. As they rushed past he rubbed his fists in his eyes, seeking to dismiss the dream of men flying. At the end of the common, a hundred yards away, the small building which served as both schoolhouse and church burned behind a curtain of steam.

"We have to get inside!" Mingo shouted, turning back to him. "Rebecca could be in there!"

Nicholas eyed the flames licking out of the windows. Fire was one of the few things that could destroy him – so why, when he claimed to court death, did he hesitate?

"Nicholas!"

As he opened his mouth to answer, his reply was cut off by the terrified cry of a small boy. "Ma! Ma! Let me go! Let me go! _Ma!"_

Nicholas pivoted to find Rebecca Boone's small son dashing forward toward the engulfed structure. Jemima Boone followed in her brother's wake, white as the snow that lay beneath her feet.

Mingo caught the boy and held him fast. "Israel, listen to me! We do not know if your mother is within. You will not help her by exposing yourself to danger. Israel!"

As the boy struggled to break free, Nicholas' eyes went to his sister. He saw it in her eyes as well – the determination that the minute one of them was not watching, she would bolt straight into the flames. Taking a step toward her, he gently touched her arm. When she met his eyes, he said softly, " _Jemima, you will listen to me_."

Above the chaos that swirled about them, of men and bucket brigades, she heard him. She was instantly enthralled. "Yes…."

" _In a moment, I will hand your brother to you. Take him, and go where you will be safe."_

"Go back…."

He smiled at her reassuringly, and then left her to go to her brother. Mingo's strength was waning. The boy was slipping out of his arms. Nicholas caught his wrist in his fingers and waited until he looked up. " _Israel,"_ he declared. " _Israel, you cannot help your mother. We will do that. Go with your sister."_

The boy had something of his mother in him. For a moment he fought against him, but then his childish belief in such things as ghosts and goblins did him in. "Go with Mima…."

Nicholas' eyes flicked to Mingo's face. He was watching, both fascinated and horrified. "You should go with them," he told him.

"No." He glanced over his shoulder at the burning building. "I must…."

"You are weak, my friend. Would you have me _insist_?"

"But Rebecca…."

Nicholas took his shoulder in his hand. "This is my fault. _I_ will go inside. But I do not think LaCroix will have allowed her to be harmed. His game is more devious than that."

Mingo frowned. "I thought fire could destroy you."

Nicholas shrugged as he took Israel from his friend and placed the boy on the ground beside his sister.

"I do not think LaCroix will allow _me_ to be harmed either."

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Mingo watched his friend go and then turned to find Jemima and Israel standing, waiting for him, their eyes blank and their jaws slack as if they were under the influence of one of the powerful potions Galunadi, the Cherokee healer, used. He glanced back at Nicholas to find him walking, determinedly, toward the burning building. In spite of the danger, he was willing to risk himself to save Rebecca. If it was possible, Nicholas _would_ be redeemed.

He was a good man.

Taking Jemima and Israel by the hand Mingo led the children to the parson's cabin, but the older man's wife told him it was too close and they feared it would burn, so he delivered them instead to the tavern. Cincinnatus was glad to take them. The tavern keeper had jumped for joy when he saw him, telling him he had feared him dead. Begrudging every moment it took, he thanked him, briefly explaining how Nicholas had saved him, and then saw the children safely to their beds where he left them dreaming whatever dreams his old friend had planted. He had no idea how much time had passed when he stepped out of the door and headed back toward the fire.

He had not gone ten steps when someone called his name.

Pivoting on his heel, Mingo looked and saw it was Rebecca. She was standing just outside the shadows on the west side of the tavern; her coppery hair gleaming in the flickering light cast by the fire blazing only a few hundred feet away.

"Rebecca!" he called as he ran toward her.

She held her hand up, acknowledging him. Then she glanced behind. And disappeared.

Mingo halted. He waited a moment and, when she did not reappear, followed her around the corner. What he found there stopped him in his tracks.

Lucien LaCroix stood, his black cape billowing about his crimson uniform. In his arms he held Rebecca Boone's still form.

The baneful creature's upper lip quirked with devilish delight.

"And for this splendid creature's continued existence, what am I bid?"

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Nicholas realized quickly that he had been _had_. Wrapping his cloak about him, he had screwed his courage to the sticking point and then burst through the hissing, boiling flames that filled the church's door. Rolling, he had come to his feet near the center of the burning room, landing on the only spot not on fire. In the middle of it lay Rebecca Boone's Bible, topped with her silver cross. LaCroix, he knew, bore a deep oozing wound on his hand in payment for the gesture. He knew as well his master considered it worth it. These powerful tokens – discarded as if they had no worth – spoke a horrible truth.

He would only be able to stop Lucien LaCroix if he _wanted_ to be stopped.

Aware that he needed to fly, but refusing to leave the precious objects behind, Nicholas had snatched them from the floor. As his fingers singed and began to smoke where they gripped the blackened leather, he wrapped his cloak about himself again and returned through the fire as quickly as he could, emerging just as the church's ceiling collapsed. The people of the fort cheered him. They kept vigil with their useless buckets, praying now that the snow would continue, hoping the white stuff would do the work they could not. They were much relieved to find Rebecca was not within, but little satisfied when he told them he didn't know where she was. Maybe they sensed the deception. Of course, it was a lie. He knew _precisely_ where she was.

With LaCroix.

Nicholas' search for Mingo led him first to the pastor's house where he was redirected to the tavern. He needed to find his old friend. Together they must play LaCroix's game and make it end in their favor. The Raven Mocker awaited them, as did the spirits of Wi-sha-sho. Together, they _would_ defeat him. And then, well, who knew? They would have to see what happened. If the Cherokee woman became mortal again, perhaps – just perhaps – there was hope for him as well.

As Nicholas lifted his hand to pound on the tavern door, it opened. Cincinnatus had pulled on his coat and was headed outside. When he saw him he stopped. "Rebecca?" the tavern keeper asked, his voice quaking with fear.

"Not within. Safe."

The older man was still not well. He actually stumbled. Nicholas took his hand and returned him to a chair in his establishment. "The children arrived safely?" he asked.

"Mingo put them to bed."

Nicholas glanced around. "And where is Mingo?"

"Gone."

The word fell like the knell of a great bell tolling for the dead. "Gone?"

"He left shortly afterward." Cincinnatus glanced up at him. "I thought he was looking for _you."_

Seconds later Nicholas stepped out into the white night. He turned in a circle at a loss. Where was he to go? What was he to do? As he hesitated, he heard a sound. It floated past him, riding the chill night air; issued forth from a demonic throat as a challenge.

Sinister laughter.

"LaCroix!" he screamed. "LaCroix, no!"

And then he saw him, at the edge of his vision – LaCroix, standing with his arms extended, his black cloak billowing in the wind. On one side it enfolded the tall rigid form of his friend, Mingo. On the other, the unconscious form of Daniel Boone's beautiful copper haired wife.

"Don't try to stop me, Nicholas," Mingo said, his voice utterly weary. "This is the only way Rebecca can live."

"Catch me if you can," LaCroix taunted, and they were gone.

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If she had been human, Janette's endless pacing would have worn a path through the snow to the frozen ground below. But she was not and so her step was featherlight and left no trace. LaCroix meant to do it tonight. To bring the earl's son across. She had flown to her master's side after her encounter with the Raven Mocker, seeking his eternal strength, and he had confided to her. He had gone to the bourgeois fort to take Daniel Boone's wife and use her as bait, knowing well Lord Dunsmore's son would willingly sacrifice himself to save her.

And he had to come over willingly.

Still, in the end, Mingo would prove to be nothing more than another Nichola. Eternally handsome, eternally young, and eternally damned by his own inherent goodness. _Non._ One Nichola was quite enough to agonize over throughout the centuries. She had no desire to be torn apart watching another waste the endless years gifted to them.

It took away all the fun.

She had tried arguing with LaCroix and that had proved nothing more than a waste of time. She had to think of something else. She could, of course, just free him, but in the end that would only delay matters – and most likely not for long. There had to be something that would render the half-Cherokee, half-Englishman _unpalatable_ to her master. Janette huffed and blew a lock of dark brown hair from her forehead.

As if his confounded goodness was not enough.

"You look troubled, dear lady," a quiet voice intruded.

Janette had heard it before. "Henri Pitcairn," she breathed as she rounded to find the British officer – or what was left of him – standing at the edge of the circle of light cast by the risen moon. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"Why, the same thing as you. The salvation of our dear friend Mingo from the nefarious clutches of General LaCroix."

Janette's blue eyes narrowed. Was this a man who stood before her, or merely his shade? She had heard the same voice coming from Mingo, seen the same look, the same swaggering walk. Was Pitcairn a master, equivalent to Mesmer, or what he claimed – a ghost?

"It is true I do not want LaCroix to bring him across. One pouting boy is all I can abide for eternity. But what is it to you?"

Henry Pitcairn lifted his head. Above them the clouds had broken to reveal deep stripes of purple lashed upon the blue body of the sky. It was bitterly cold and a steady snow fell, deepening the white dunes surrounding them. When he spoke, his voice was as bleak as the land. " 'My mind misgives, some consequence yet hanging in the stars, shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night's revels, and expire the term of the despised life closed in my breast….' "

"Messier Shakespeare's words are fine, but you are already _dead!"_ she snapped. "Or so you claim."

Pitcairn laughed. The sound was hollow. "That will be decided tonight." He turned his face from the sky and approached her. Once at her side, he stopped. "LaCroix will not let Mingo go. But I can take him from him."

"How?"

"At the place where this all began. In the cave where the Cherokee witch waits. I will take him there. When he is near death, she will think she can take my soul by attacking him." Pitcairn's lips twisted with a sneer. "But I shall not be there. I will withdraw and it is him she will take." His spectral body shuddered at the thought of final release. "Then, at last, I will be free."

"And Mingo damned."

"No, dear lady, he will be free as well. It is only if you let your master have him, that he will be damned."

Janette stared at him a moment and then nodded, once. "Oui."

"So, we have a deal?"

"What do you need from me? You have taken him over before."

"But not near LaCroix. I have killed two hundred." Pitcairn's eyes were empty pits into a lost soul. "He has killed for two _thousand_ years. His evil is _far_ more powerful than mine."

"So you need a distraction?"

"Oui," Pitcairn answered with a snort.

She considered it. This way, when Mingo escaped, the fault could not be laid at her slippered feet. Janette held her hand out and then retracted it, uncertain of the proper form for shaking hands with a ghost.

"Consider it done," she said at last.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

A soft voice spoke, calling her back to the land of the living. "Rebecca. Rebecca, wake up."

Becky blinked and opened her eyes. Then she gasped and struck out wildly, seeking to escape not only the flames, but the evil creature that held her tightly in its grasp. "No! No, let me go!" she cried.

Strong hands caught her wrists. "Rebecca, listen to me. It is Mingo."

"No, I…." She blinked again. The watercolor face that washed before her was deeply tanned and had black – not white – hair. Becky drew a deep breath to steady her nerves. "Mingo? Is it really you?"

"Yes, Rebecca, it is I. You are safe."

"But the fire…. That _man!_ "

"The fire was nearly extinguished when we departed," he assured her as he helped her into a seated position. "The settlement is safe as well."

Becky shoved the copper wave of her hair back over her shoulder and glanced around as Mingo rose to his feet. The bare white world made it impossible for her to get her bearings. She shivered and nodded her thanks as Mingo bent and drew the cloak she wore closer about her shoulders. Someone must have wrapped her in it after she fell unconscious. Meeting Mingo's gaze, she asked, "Where are we?"

For a moment he just stared at her; his dark brown eyes troubled. Then he turned toward the horizon. "Not far from the Place of 1000 Spirits."

"The cave in Shawnee Territory? But Mingo, that's at least day's walk on a bright summer morning…. Oh." Becky swallowed over a substantial fear. " _He_ brought us here, didn't he?."

Mingo didn't look at her. "You will be home soon, Rebecca. That is a promise."

There was something in his tone. A sense of defeat. As if he had given himself over to the inevitable. "Mingo, what have you done?"

"Why, he has agreed to dance with the Devil, my dear."

Becky pivoted sharply to find Lucien LaCroix watching them. The white haired man was standing no more than six yards away. For a second, she couldn't comprehend his meaning, but then she remembered the conversation she and Nicholas Knightsford had had the night she discovered what he was. General LaCroix wanted Mingo for his evil schemes. She didn't completely understand why, though she knew being Lord Dunsmore's son had something to do with it. Whatever the reason, she knew if LaCroix won, Mingo would be condemned to the same kind of hell Nicholas daily walked in.

"Mingo, no!" she breathed, gripping his arm with her hand. "You can't do this."

He turned to look at her; his aspect tormented. "What I cannot do, Rebecca, is allow you to die. You and your children. Daniel…."

"Death is better than damnation," she countered in a terse whisper.

"How droll," LaCroix sneered, hearing it anyway. He studied them a moment and then moved closer. "Take it from one who _is_ damned, Mrs. Boone – there is _nothing_ better!"

Mingo stepped between them. Becky noticed that he limped and was breathing hard, worn out by all he had endured. "You have me, Lucien. And you have my word that I will not run. Take Rebecca back to the fort."

The evil creature pursed his lips and considered it. Then he scoffed. "Your word? The word of a _mortal_. What is that to me?"

"It is everything you are not, and everything I might hope to be," a voice cried out. The man who spoke was hidden behind a blanket of falling snow, but she knew him anyway, and so it was no surprise when Nicholas Knightsford's slender form appeared. "Honor. Truth. Nobility."

"Ah, Nicholas. I thought you might be joining us." Lucien LaCroix opened his arms and gestured broadly. "We'll just be one big _happy_ family, now won't we? Isn't that right, Janette?"

Becky had not noticed her, though she supposed she knew she had been there all along. At LaCroix's word, the Frenchwoman appeared from out of the white stuff. Snowflakes frosted her dark hair and powdered the shoulders of the mantle she wore. Janette was restless. Her fingers picked nervously at the beribboned edge of the cloak.

"LaCroix, I grow bored. Can we not simply _leave?"_ she pleaded in petulant tones.

"Patience, my dear," he answered, "we are almost done. Now, if you would be so good as to escort Mrs. Boone a little ways away so I can speak to Mr. Murray, here, that would certainly expedite our departure."

Becky shoved past Mingo and planted herself between him and the man who promised his destruction. "You'll have to go through me first," she declared.

LaCroix's only reply was an eager smile.

It was Mingo's turn to take her arm. "Rebecca," he pleaded, "think of your children."

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Mingo, no…."

"He is right, Rebecca. You must think of yourself."

Becky pivoted. Nicholas Knightsford had appeared from out of nowhere. He stood, just within the cast shadow of a brace of trees.

"Nicholas, you tell him. Tell him he _cannot_ do this," she pleaded.

For a moment, he did nothing. Then the blond man approached them, his feet dragging as if his shoes were made of lead. When he reached her side Nicholas hung his head. "Rebecca, I fear there is nothing anyone can do. LaCroix is too powerful." He lifted his chin and looked at the baneful creature that hovered some fifteen feet away. "Should Mingo flee, it is doubtful he would make it to the trees. Though, once past them, I doubt even LaCroix could track him through this storm." Nicholas' jaw grew tight. He shuddered, and then turned to look directly into Mingo's eyes. "My friend," he said, his voice curiously quiet, "you must listen to me. _Fly, Cara-Mingo, flee into the white night!"_

As he spoke Nicholas whirled and, flying faster than she could see, launched himself at LaCroix. The unexpected action took the older man by surprise and he was knocked off his feet and into Janette who tumbled to the snowy ground with him. As they sorted themselves out, Nicholas rolled to his feet and sprinted toward her. Becky gasped as his strong arms caught her waist and he pushed off of the earth, rising with her into the air.

Terrified, Becky glanced down just in time to see Mingo vanish into the trees.

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Janette winced. She could hear LaCroix's bestial growl even above the howling wind. Their master was nearly 2000 years old, but at times like this – when he was momentarily thwarted by Nichola – he behaved like a petulant child. Janette glanced at LaCroix where raged in competition with the storm. A pout did not sit as well on his face as it did on hers.

With a shrug, Janette turned back to the horizon where the earl's son had vanished. Though their sight was keen – and LaCroix's keenest of all – it was nearly impossible to track anything upon the blank page of snow. Even if he could find the mortal's heartbeat, there was nothing to give him any bearing. And in all likelihood the chase would prove futile. Mingo was weak. Most likely he would not survive an hour in the cold. He had no cloak or coat; only a thin linen shirt and breeches.

Someone would find him but it would not be until the spring. And then there would be nothing left of her songbird but his fragile bones.

Well, at least Nichola's action had taken her off the hook. She had not been comfortable with the bargain she had made with Henry Pitcairn's shade. This released her from it. Janette narrowed her eyes, scanning the white field before her. Was the Englishman out there? If he was, and Henry Pitcairn found his victim along the way and took matters into his own ghostly hands, then what was it to her?

Why, it was nothing, of course.

Turning back, Janette glided across the glistening crust of snow and ice to her master's side. Once there she waited until he noticed and turned to glare at her.

Making a fist, he declared, "I will have them both! Nicholas _and_ Lord Murray's son! They shall _not_ escape me!"

"Nichola is already yours, you know that. And you know Lord Murray's son will never be content at our side. He is too disgustingly good His fate is sealed now," she finished. "He will be dead soon."

"I _can_ find him…."

"Oui, you _could_. With much effort and trial. But why bother?" she cooed, drawing close to him and linking their arms. "Think of all we are missing by remaining here in this bucolic borough. There are balls in Philadelphia. Gaiety. There is that invitation from Lord Howe…." Janette wet her lips. "There are many earl's sons in the capital city."

LaCroix's peevish pout returned. "But I wanted _this_ one."

"He is very handsome," she agreed, "and he _would_ draw the ladies, but I think, in the end, it would not be worth the trouble. You would simply have another Nichola on your hands."

"They could be miserable together," he suggested.

"Oui," she laughed. After a pause, Janette asked softly, "Can we not go now? Can we not leave this place?"

Her master's hand caressed her dark tresses. "Soon, my dear. Soon. But Father has a lesson to teach his recalcitrant son first."

Janette squirmed. She knew that tone.

"He has interfered with my plans. I must mete out some sort of punishment. Must I not?"

"Punishment?" she echoed. While LaCroix might track Mingo only with difficulty, five centuries familiarity bred many things – including an uncanny knack of knowing where Nicholas was and what he was about.

"Chastisement then, shall we say?" LaCroix removed her arm from his and took a step back. "Why don't you return to the settlement and gather up our things – _don't_ forget the soldiers – and wait for me in the woods nearby. As soon as Nicholas and I make _amends,_ we shall indeed leave this place for finer, fairer pastures."

"What will you do to him?" she asked.

He touched his finger to her nose. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it. I would never do anything to Nicholas to hurt him – _permanently_. You know that."

"Can you sense him, in the midst of all this white?" she asked, hopeful that he could not.

The snow was swirling about him, so hard that LaCroix nearly became one with it as she watched. From the heart of the white whirlwind a pair of ice blue eyes gone sickly green blazed with the thrill of the chase.

"Oh, yes…. But not because I have tried. Nicholas, I fear, has a scheme of some sort." A sneer quirked the corner of LaCroix's thin pallid lips.

"It is _he_ who calls me."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rebecca had drawn a breath to scream as Nicholas lifted her into the air. She didn't release it until Nicholas placed her feet once again on the ground. He studied her a moment and then stepped back, as if giving her room. She thought she had come to grips with what he was, but she had been wrong. What he had just done – flying – flew in the face of everything she had ever believed possible. Becky shivered. As she did – gracious as ever – he removed his cloak and flung it about her shoulders. Then he moved away again and regarded her with a wry smile.

"I apologize if I frightened you. There was no other way to remove you from what was an _immediate_ danger."

"What about Mingo?" She could see him still, disappearing into the trees and the storm that buffeted them.

"I shall return to the wild to hunt him as soon as I know you are safe."

"Where are we?" she asked as she shook snow from her hair. They were in a cave, but it was not the Place of 1000 Spirits. It was smaller and, surprisingly, smelled of smoke and roast rabbit. As her mouth watered and her stomach growled in concert, she wondered aloud. "Who in the world could have been here?" When Nicholas made no reply, she turned to look.

He was gone.

Moving quickly to the cave mouth, Becky called him. There was no reply other than the roaring wind. She opened her mouth to call again, but as she did someone spoke, startling her. It was a man's voice and came from behind her – from within the cavern itself.

"Rebecca Boone! If you aren't a sight for a man's sore eyes…."

It took no more than her name. She knew the voice _and_ the man. Whirling, Becky gasped as she watched her husband emerge from a chink in the cave's rear wall. "Dan!" she cried, overjoyed, "Dan!"

In a second, she was in his arms.

"Dan, how?" she asked after a dozen kisses.

He was laughing. "I was about to ask you the same thing, Mrs. Boone."

Becky glanced back at the cave mouth. "Nicholas brought me," she answered, praying he would not ask how. When Dan said nothing, she added, her voice tinged with sorrow. "Dan, Mingo's out in this somewhere. Nicholas went to look for him."

After a moment, Dan said thoughtfully, "Seeing how Mingo's Cherokee, it only seems right."

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

"We've come full circle, Becky. This all started with Mingo lost in the snow, seems only fittin' it ends that way too."

"Dan…."

He stopped her with a touch of his fingers on her cheek. "I ain't used to standin' by while others solve things, Becky. You know that. But this LaCroix…." He paused and then suddenly brightened. "Still, I ain't been standin' around twiddlin' my thumbs, you know?"

"Never thought it for a minute," she grinned. "So what have you been up to, Daniel Boone?"

He nodded. Thankful for her backing. "Do you know where you are? Where _we_ are?"

"A cave?"

"But not just any cave." He pointed back the way he had come, to the narrow fissure in the wall. "I noticed this tonight, after…. Well, after I got here. This cave is one of a series in the area. You remember the Place of 1000 Spirits?"

How could she forget?

"It's not far from here. In fact, I think this cave is connected to it. You remember how it had those passages at the back?"

"And you think we should go there?" she asked.

Dan's lips pursed in the way she loved before he nodded. "I'm bettin' that's where all of this will end – at Henry Pitcairn's feet." His green eyes sought hers. They were filled with regret. "I was wrong, Becky. We shouldn't have saved him."

That profession shook her almost as much as the presence of their supernatural guests had shaken him. "Dan, no."

"Nothin' but evil has come of it."

"But a man's life _is_ a man's life," she answered softly. "We couldn't turn him over to the Shawnee to be butchered and burnt. We would have been no better than him." Becky took her husband's hand in her own. "You did what was right. God will make the rest right now. Have faith, Dan."

He stared at her for a moment, and then leaned down and kissed her. "I have faith in you," he said softly, and then added with his usual grin, "Mrs. Boone, would you accompany me on a short journey?"

Becky stared at the narrow fissure in the cave wall. What would they find at the end? Henry Pitcairn, as Dan suspected, alive and returned from the dead? Or his spirit, doomed to wander the earth. Would there be a Cherokee witch as Mingo feared? Or maybe the evil that they knew – Lucien LaCroix.

Or maybe only Mingo's frozen corpse.

She shivered and nestled against her husband as he pulled her close.

"Wither thou goest," she breathed, meaning it.

And followed him into the darkness.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

By the time Mingo became aware again, he was adrift with no bearings in a world of white. The cold burnt its way up through his feet, into his legs and reached for his heart, threatening to bleed it of warmth and cause it to cease to beat. There was no hope of rescue, he knew that. No prospect of warmth or shelter. And yet, as he lifted his face to the pale gray sky, he smiled.

With awareness came the knowledge of who, and just _what_ he had escaped. Lucien LaCroix would not have his way. Nor would his father. He would not become the pawn of another man. He would die – and would remain free for eternity.

Or so he thought. Then he heard a tune carried on the frigid air.

"Musha rig um du rum da, whack fol the daddy-o. Whack fol the daddy-o…

There's whiskey in the jar..."

Mingo halted thigh-deep in the cold white stuff. Before him a long, lean man in a British officer's coat slouched against a tree glazed with snow. When Henry Pitcairn saw him, he straightened up and began to walk toward him. Pitcairn moved as if unimpeded – as if the white dunes were not even there.

"And so we meet again," he said as he came to rest before him.

Mingo's sigh was resigned. "What do you want of me?"

"On the contrary, animal, I think there is something _you_ want of me."

There was no strength to shake his head. "I want nothing from you."

"Not evenlife?"

That roused him, if only a bit. "A dead man offers life?"

Pitcairn's lips twisted with a knowing smile. "You are lost, are you not?"

"That depends on the destination I am headed for," he answered, utterly weary.

"If it is death, then by all means lay down like the animal you are and die, Cherokee," Pitcairn snarled. Then he made a fist. "But if it is _life_ , I can help you there!"

"How?"

"Take my hand." Pitcairn extended it. " _Join_ with me! I know the way to shelter and have the strength to bring you there."

Mingo was trembling so hard now with the cold he could hardly stand. Alone, he would die. There was no question of that. "Is that not just another death? Surrendering who I am? Becoming _you?"_

Pitcairn's hand remained. "Perhaps. But have you really any choice?"

Mingo looked up, to the place where the One Who Dwelt Above awaited him. "I can choose to die."

The British officer nodded in the direction he had come. "Yes. If _he_ will let you. But I do not think he will."

So there it was. With Pitcairn he stood a chance. He had broken free before. But with Lucien LaCroix….

For a moment Mingo remained very still. Then he stumbled forward and took Pitcairn's hand, gasping as the ghostly fingers closed over his own.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

So strange. So curious. Breathing again. Feeling a heart beat in his chest, but he couldn't feel his fingers. Or his toes.

Mingo's body had stopped shivering. The Indian was beginning to feel a kind of false warmth, that promised – not relief from the frigid white nightmare he found himself trapped within – but release.

Where they had come from there was no horizon. No day. No night. Nothing but white. White trees. White land. White sky. White water.

White death for the mortal he now was.

Henry Pitcairn had no idea how long ago they had found the shallow cave, or when it had embraced the Cherokee's nearly frozen form. He couldn't remember what had happened. He only knew that the animal had lost his red coat, that the borrowed clothes that covered him were soaking wet; that Mingo's movements were slow and labored and, not surprisingly, he was confused. What surprised him was the fact that he too had been affected. Henry Pitcairn had no idea what day it was, when the storm had started or why they had been out in it alone.

And they were alone.

They would _die_ alone.

Henry Pitcairn glanced at his borrowed hands where they showed beneath the cuffs of a linen shirt. The Cherokee's usual golden tan had turned a sickly blue. Their fingers would not open. Their speech was distorted, if even possible. The Indian's mind was fast shutting down. As an army officer he recognized the signs. They were freezing to death. In the spring, someone would find their bones. They would shake their heads and murmur sympathetic words, and then bury them in an unmarked grave.

Something in that thought roused him. No, he shouted. _No!_ He would not die and leave no mark that he had been. Struggling against the lethargy that sought to claim them, he lifted their arm and reached for a nearby rock. The savage jerked spasmodically and he missed it. Pitcairn fought to lend him strength, wondering what it was they would accomplish. Once, twice, they tried. Then they forced their frozen fingers to close on the rock and, strengthening one hand with the other, began to rake the jagged edge of the stone across the cave floor, to write a name.

What _was_ their name?

The stone shook in his borrowed fingers. It dropped.

And then so did he.

Too late Henry Pitcairn realized what was happening. Too late he understood that that he was hoist by his own petard. The Indian was going to die and so was he, finally welcomed – and trapped in the body he so longed to possess.

A deep silence descended on the cave. A silence deep as the snow.

A moment later Henry Pitcairn watched as a strong breeze blew through the shallow cave, lifting their black hair and dusting it with white; crystallizing on the surface of the dark leather boots they wore and settling on their buff breeches.

They did not have many heartbeats remaining. A dozen of those passed before the white wind coalesced and assumed the shape of a man. He was clothed in a suit of the palest blue. His honey blond hair was tousled, the curls restive as the spirit that shone out of his pale blue eyes. He was slender. Well made. And young.

And very, _very_ old.

The man knelt by them, his fingers finding their throat, checking for the pulse of life that should be there. Locating it, but barely, he turned them over and took one pallid blue hand in his own.

"I came to save you, my friend," he said, his voice soft as the fall of white flakes that dusted his great coat and iced his pale hair. "Now it is too late. Now," he pushed the fabric back from their wrist and studied the thin thread of life beating there, 'now, _this_ is only way."

The young man's face grew sober, and then blank. His blue eyes turned a sickly green. Full lips stretched taut over razor sharp teeth that grew in length until they were twin portents – not of death, but of immortal damnation.

The vampire howled and with deep regret, bent to the task at hand.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

" _What is this_ , Nicholas?" Lucien LaCroix roared. "Betrayal heaped upon betrayal?"

Nicholas stopped with his face near Mingo's throat. He had broken the skin and drained enough of his friend's blood to slow his pulse to nothing. His lips held an enticing taste of it. As he fought the sinful urge to take more than was needed, he breathed in Mingo's ear, "Hold on my friend. _Stay_ with me." Then he rose to face his master.

"Can it be you mean to bring this one across on your own?" LaCroix asked. "Tsk. Tsk, Nicholas. You know how poorly that has gone before."

"I mean no such thing," he answered, standing tall. "Mingo is dead. You can no longer harm him."

Nicholas held his breath as LaCroix reached out, searching for the slightest beat of the human's heart.

Leaving him open for what was to come.

Nicholas stepped away. He wiped his lips clean with the back of his hand and then said, his command a hoarse whisper of hope. "Now, Waapa! _Now!"_

From the cavern walls two hundred souls bled to surround LaCroix. Two hundred souls whose voices blended with the others the baneful creature had killed and used and left like carrion for the beasts to feed on for two thousand years. He saw LaCroix start with surprise. His ice blue eyes flew open and, if possible, showed fear.

"Nicholas, what is _this?"_ he hissed.

Fatigue nearly unmanned him. He tried to speak, but couldn't. Then, tears filling his eyes, Nicholas answered.

"Justice."

It was at that moment she appeared, separating from the shadows that masked the cavern's domed ceiling; a ragged gathering of the void armed with claws and a great sucking mouth. Like the ravening bird she was, the Raven Mocker spread her wings wide and then dropped –

Engulfing Lucien LaCroix.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Dan!" Deep within the passageway Becky stopped and gripped her husband's arm. There had been a scream – hideous, hollow. And now gone. "What was that?"

Dan's knuckles were white on Ticklicker's brown butt. "Sounded like a cornered bear."

Or a cornered demon, she thought, cast shrieking back into the fires of Hell.

"It sounded close," she whispered as she slipped into the safety of his arms.

Dan nodded. "You feel that breeze? I think the Place of 1000 Spirits is just ahead. It came from there."

"What do you think we'll find?"

Her husband pulled her close. "I don't rightly know, Rebecca, but it's time this was over. Come on."

###

He couldn't believe it. It didn't seem possible.

It was over.

Nicholas was trembling from fear _and_ relief. The Raven Mocker had descended, enveloping his ancient master and when she rose, opening her arms, he was gone. There was nothing. LaCroix was no more. He didn't know _how_ she had done it, but the Cherokee witch's magic had proven more powerful than twenty centuries of LaCroix's evil.

"Where is he?" he asked, breathless.

The mocker cackled. "Back where he belongs. But not for long, young sir. Not for long."

Nicholas nodded. He had hoped, but knew better. He had seen this before. Lucien LaCroix defeated, but not for long. _Never_ for long. La Croix was too strong. He would return all too soon – uglier and angrier than before.

"Thank you anyway," he said softly.

She nodded and then raised a withered hand to point. "Your friend is dying."

Dear God! He had forgotten Mingo! Pivoting sharply, Nicholas dashed to his friend's side. He took Mingo's wrist in his hand and felt for a pulse. It was practically non-existent and, this time, it was for real. "What have I done?" he cried. "I have killed him!"

"No. You have saved him," the Raven Mocker rasped as she hobbled to his side.

"That is a lie I told myself and LaCroix. I meant for him to _live_. Not to – "

"Step aside."

At first he thought to refuse, but then Nicholas saw that Waapa and her son had joined them and that, behind them, were the other two hundred souls of Wi-sha-sho. Waapa met his despairing gaze and nodded, as if to say, this _too_ was meant to be. It took everything that was in him, but he released Mingo's hand and left his fate to the spirits of the cave.

The Raven Mocker stood over Mingo for more heartbeats than Nicholas was comfortable with, then she called out in a strong voice, "Henry Pitcairn, you will leave this man."

Nicholas waited, but nothing happened. "Mother…."

She raised a hand to silence him. "Henry Pitcairn, you owe me. Now _obey_ me. Leave this man."

A breeze rose, rustling Nicholas' honey blond hair. It played with the tattered ends of Mingo's linen shirt and dusted the snow from his shoulders. And then something happened which Nicholas would never forget – Henry Pitcairn's spirit rose up slowly out of Mingo and hovered just above him. The two remained one where Pitcairn's booted feet disappeared into the Cherokee's prone form

The Raven Mocker remained still for a moment, waiting for the disembodied spirit to look at her. Then she said, "The time has come."

Nicholas had expected the Englishman to struggle, to fight for this last vestige of survival, but instead his ghostly shoulders slumped in defeat. "I am more than ready," he said at last, his voice hoarse with fatigue. "Send me to Hell."

The Raven Mocker turned to the spirit of her granddaughter and held out her hand. As Waapa took it, she said, "Look upon one you killed, white man. Do you see hate in her eyes?"

It took a moment, but he looked. "What is this?"

"How could my grandchild hate the one who saved me?"

Surprise registered on the sallow face. "What? _Saved_ you?"

The Raven Mocker released Waapa who knelt and gathered her son in her arms. "You thought I had died in the fires, but I did not. I survived. I became what I am in order to claim your damned soul and, in doing so, became just as damned." She raised a hand and lowered her hood, revealing an ancient face, still scarred, but entirely human. "If you had not returned here to die, Henry Pitcairn, calling me back, I would never have found out that the spirits of Wi-sha-sho did not condemn an old woman for her weakness, and were only waiting to forgive."

Nicholas was as astonished as Henry Pitcairn. The Raven Mocker had regained her humanity.

Was there hope then, that he too might be forgiven and restored?

"Do you want to be at peace, Henry Pitcairn?" the old woman asked.

Pitcairn let out his hope in a sigh. "Yes…."

"Are you sorry for what you did?"

"Dear God, I _am_ sorry…." Nicholas watched as the spirit's gaze moved among the ghostly Indians assembled in the cave. "I could see nothing but my duty, and I was wrong."

For a moment there was silence. Then Waapa, with her small son on her hip, approached him. Dancing Dog reached out and took the Englishman's hand.

"Come with us," the Raven Mocker said. "We will all find peace."

Nicholas realized suddenly that Pitcairn and the others were growing transparent. "No!" he cried, taking a step forward. "No! You must tell me what to do. Your good deed has made you human again. How can I be the same?"

The spirits of Wi-sha-sho were gone; Waapa and Dancing Dog among them. Only the old woman remained. She hobbled slowly toward him, halting within arm's reach. Then she laid one wrinkled hand on his arm. "Continue to do good, Nicholas Knightsford. Many are your sins, and many are the deeds needed to overcome them." At his look she added gently, "Do not despair. There _is_ good in you and one day, it will be triumphant."

And with that, she was gone.

The silence that descended on the cave was broken only by a startled gasp. And then a familiar voice. "Dear God, Mingo! What has happened?"

Nicholas pivoted to find Daniel Boone and his wife emerging from what appeared to be a solid wall. The tall frontiersman held back as his wife dropped to her knees beside their friend's prone form. She placed her hand on Mingo's chest and then turned her face toward him. "Nicholas, is he…?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

Daniel Boone's appraising gaze went from his friend's prone form to Nicholas' coat and hands which were coated with blood. "There something you want to tell me, Mr. Knightsford?" he asked as he raised his rifle.

"It is a long story, Mr. Boone. Best saved for a mug of ale by the fire." Suddenly weary, he sank onto a nearby boulder and called out, "Rebecca? How _is_ Mingo?" Dare he hope the Raven Mocker had worked a _second_ miracle?

"Weak, but alive," she answered. Then she turned to her husband. "Dan, we have to do something to warm him."

"There's dry kindling in the back," he answered with one final disapproving glance in Nicholas' direction. Then the frontiersman left to gather it.

As the stuff of life took over, supplanting the threat of death and the white night they had just passed through, Nicholas Knightsford smiled. All he had put these people through had not proved in vain. The world was free of Lucien LaCroix's evil, at least for a time. The spirits of Wi-sha-sho, of the Raven Mocker and her grandchild, and of Henry Pitcairn were finally at peace. And last of all he had seen great evil overcome by a simple choice to do good. The Raven Mocker had been redeemed.

Which meant, _he_ could be redeemed.


	17. White Knight epilogue

3

Epilogue

"Were you going to go without a word?" a strong female voice asked as Nicholas Knightsford placed his hand on the latch of the tavern door and lifted it. It was well into the wee hours of the morning, and he had thought to make good his escape.

Turning, he found Daniel Boone's lovely wife standing on the stair. She had been above, attending to Mingo whose health was still fragile, though his old friend was mending. Her husband had reluctantly parted from her the morning of their return two days before, graciously – if somewhat unwillingly – agreeing to Rebecca's request to return their children to their home.

Nicholas' lips pursed. He released the latch and took a step toward her. "I thought it better this way," he answered with chagrin.

"I hadn't pegged you for a coward," she answered as she descended, a slight smile softening her words.

"No, but you have 'pegged' me for what I am. Can you live with that truth?"

Rebecca's hand went involuntarily to the cross she wore. The precious symbol was once again fastened about her neck and cloaked by a modesty scarf for his sake. Its silver shone brightly after a polish, but her beloved Bible would remain forever singed.

"And what _are_ you?" she asked as she landed at his side.

Nicholas sighed. "You alone, of all here, know that."

He had used his influence with her husband. Though Daniel Boone was not easily led, he was more than willing to listen to his own voice when amplified. All of the things he had seen and suspected, had reasonable explanations. Nicholas had simply added his own influence, confirming what the frontiersman thought. In Daniel Boone's world there was no room for even a hint of the supernatural.

Which was just as well.

Cincinnatus and the people of the settlement were mortal sheep. It took little to lead them where he wanted. In the morning they would remember nothing. Or if any _did_ remember, it would be only to comment on the curious English trio who had come to town.

His old friend Cara-Mingo had been a more delicate matter. His exposure to the cold and the necessary loss of blood, coupled with Henry Pitcairn's possession, had left him fragile. Slowly, with the patience of a caring parent, Nicholas had used his abilities to nurse him, body and soul. He was out of danger now. Still, it would not do for him to remember the ordeal. Nicholas had used his influence to alter his old friend's perceptions so he would remember his visit, but nothing of the haunting or his powers.

Rebecca watched him closely as all of this played through his mind. "Yes, I know what you are," she said at last. "A good friend. A good man."

He shook his head. "I am _not_ a man – "

She reached out and unexpectedly caught his hand. "You are wrong. You are a man, and you _are_ good. Continue to choose to be both, Nicholas, and you will find your way back to God."

She almost had the power to convince him. "If you say so," he answered.

"What will you do now?" she asked as she released him. "Now that…that _creature_ is no more?"

He hadn't the heart to tell her that LaCroix was only somewhere nursing his wounds. It mattered little anyway. When he moved on, his master would have no reason to trouble these good people again. "I will join Janette. Most likely she will want to winter in Philadelphia." From her expression, he could see she did not approve. "You do not _like_ Janette?"

"She is one of God's creatures. Or _was_." Rebecca Boone scowled. "Be careful of her, Nicholas _. She_ has no desire to do good."

He nodded. Then he took her hand in his. "I have something to ask you, Rebecca. Think long and hard before you answer."

She looked skeptical. "What?"

"Though you are what we call a 'resistor', you _can_ be influenced – if you choose to be. I _can_ make you forget."

"You can?"

He saw it in her eyes – the desire to live without the truth of what she knew. "Yes. If you _want_ it."

She thought a moment. "Will I remember you?"

Nicholas was taken aback. It made a difference to her that she _did_. "If you so desire. It will be as with Mingo. I am an old friend who came to visit, and has gone."

Her fingers clutched the cross again. Unexpectedly, she smiled. "In a way, you are proof of my faith. Proof that there _is_ more to our lives than this weary world. But…."

"But?"

"For the children, it would be best if I did not remember. Their world is

innocent…."  
"And yours is no longer."

As she nodded, tears filled her eyes.

He took her hand. "Come with me then to the fire….."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Becky Boone stirred and roused herself. The fire had gone out and the tavern's main room grown chill. She hugged her shawl about her trembling form and turned to find that the door was standing wide open. Rising to her feet, she crossed to it and stood, for just a moment, looking out into the snow. As she did she felt a sense of loss she didn't understand, but then she heard Mingo's voice calling to her softly from the room upstairs and it faded with the necessity of 'doing'. Turning, she made her way to the stair. Mingo had been quite sheepish the last time they had spoken – as well he should! Imagine, heading out into a snow storm alone and after too many drinks. He was lucky that old friend of his had been passing through and found him before he had frozen to death. It was a shame Nicholas Knightsford had not been able to remain until Mingo was healed, but he had been on his way to Philadelphia to meet someone and had to go.

He certainly had seemed a nice young man…..

\- END –


End file.
